


Unfinished/Abandoned Stories

by coricomile



Category: Bandom, Boondock Saints (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Fall Out Boy, Merlin (TV), Sherlock (TV), Teen Wolf (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Gen, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 00:31:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 16
Words: 49,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2527319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snippets of abandoned stories in multiple fandoms ranging from drabbles to 10,000 word monsters. At the moment, there is no plan to finish any of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New Kind of Tension- Pete/Patrick, PG

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was originally meant to be a Big Bang based on the concept of American Idiot: Patrick, the under-appreciated little brother that runs away to find himself and Pete, the maybe real, maybe fictional savior that finds him instead.

The recital is full of people in suits and ties, women in dresses down to their high heels. It's being held in a ballroom, full of decadence from chandelier to polished wood floors. There's gold in the walls.

Patrick adjusts his cuffs and tries not to squirm in his seat. His suit doesn't quite fit right, but he lives under the blind hope that he won't have to wear it too often. It seems, though, that he may have to speak up soon. This is the third recital in two months. He's already tired, and the music hasn't even started.

"Why do I have to be here, too?" He asks, scuffing his dress shoes against the floor. He feels a gleeful sort of curl in his chest when he sees a dark mark left on the shiny wood.

"To support Kevin," his father says. He places a firm elbow against Patrick's bicep, bone sinking in just enough to hurt. "Stop squirming. People are watching."

People are always watching. Patrick slumps down into his chair and folds his arms over his stomach. He's tired of supporting Kevin. He's been doing it for the past sixteen years. He'd like to play the starring role once in awhile.

Patrick yawns his way through the first three songs, staring at Kevin's hands moving on the violin. They’re thinner than his own, longer. Kevin’s gone to rehearsal after lesson after tutoring session, and every last moment shows. They say he’s a prodigy, but Patrick can see the tension in his arms and shoulders, knows that he’s just technical skill and not a lot else.

When it’s finally over, he shoves himself into a corner and waits. He should be home. There's papers to write and email to check and enough sulking to do to fill a month's worth of time.

People come up to him, ask him how proud of his brother he is, tell him how great Kevin sounds. They wonder out loud to him if he himself will ever reach such levels. Patrick tries not to bristle, but he feels like he's going to go absolutely insane if he has to listen to this noise for any longer.

The ride home is full of praise for the performance. Kevin takes it gladly, shrugs like he's embarrassed. Patrick jerks out of his stupid, too small jacket and doesn't apologize when he elbows Kevin in the side. He's not jealous. He's just- tired of hearing about how great his stupid brother is.

When they get home, Patrick holes up in his room. He's going to get yelled at for not going to dinner, but he doesn't really give a shit. He kicks his dress shoes against the wall, shoves his pants off, and throws his dress shirt into the corner. He hopes they get wrinkled. He hopes they get damaged enough that he'll never have to put them on again.

Then, he plays guitar until his fingers hurt.

His parents, they go to Kevin's stupid recitals and encourage him to go to college for music, and tell him how talented he is. They don't go to Patrick's shows. They don't even ask how they went. It's bullshit that Patrick can't stop caring about, no matter how hard he tries.

\---

The record store is probably the best thing that's ever happened to Patrick. He works Thursday nights and all day Saturday, stocking and inventorying. The pay is shit, but he gets to take home records for almost free. It's great.

[Blah, blah, blah. Teenage angst.]

Patrick's backpack is heavy against him, the old straps loose enough that it bounces with every step he takes. It's comforting in a way, the steady thump, thump, thump grounding him. He can feel the sharp edge of his laptop, hear the rattle of change in its pockets.

He buys his Metra tickets, shoves himself into a seat, and tries not to think about his family. He wonders when they'll notice that he's gone. He wonders if they'll know why he left at all. And inside, a small, desperate part wonders if they'll miss him.

There isn't really a plan. He's got two hundred dollars of saved cash in his wallet and a thin hope of finding someone who wouldn't mind taking on a cheap, underaged roommate. If he can't find that, he'll just. Wander. Busk. It's romantic enough to make him squirm in his seat. This is him making a life alone. He's always had himself and only himself, and he'll do well enough.

He watches the suburbs fade into the city, leg bouncing against his guitar case. It feels like he's going to a show, like it's any other trip into the city. There's no deep seated terror, no worry. Just- nothing. 

[Blah, blah, blah. Finding a place to live. More teenage angst.]

 

“You play a pretty song.”

There’s a guy standing on the edge of the fountain, shirtless and dripping. He’s been penny diving, pockets full of wet change. Patrick blinks at him through tired, blurry eyes. He’s been trying not to wear his glasses under the sunlight; they make his eyes burn, leave spots until well into the night. The guy hops off the ledge, drops some of his treasure into Patrick’s hat.

“You look like shit though,” he says.

Patrick clenches his jaw and ignores him. The business crowd is going to let out soon. There’s a few good tippers that like to make him play like a jukebox. He’s so tired. His stomach grumbles. When he’s got enough cash, he’s going to the closest McDonald’s and buying out their dollar menu. 

“Hey, do you know any Misery Signals?” The guy flops down in front of him, leaning back on his arms. He’s dark skinned and tattooed and doesn’t budge an inch when Patrick waves him away. 

Patrick tenses his fingers around his guitar. His stomach is aching, and if this guy doesn't leave soon, he's going to lose his shit.

"Come on, Pattycakes." The guy sits up, knees spread open. There's holes in the thighs of his jeans, wear patches. Patrick finally takes a moment to really look at him.

"Who are you?" He asks tightly.

"Pete," the man says. He smiles widely, mouth full of too big teeth. He looks wolfish. Predatory. "And you're Patrick. Sixteen, a couple hundred miles away from home, and three? Four days on empty. Sound about right?"

"How do you know me?" Patrick asks. He wants to step back, but he can already feel the edge of the fountain against his calves.

"I know," Pete says. He pushes himself up, the thin muscles around his shoulders tensing. "The city has ears, kid."

The door to the main business building opens, men and women spilling out onto the street. Patrick should be playing right now. He should be trying to raise up cash, but he can't make his fingers move. 

"You're hungry. Let me buy you lunch." Pete holds out a hand, eyebrows raised. Patrick's stomach grumbles. It's stupid to pass up a meal, but stupid to go off with some weirdo that knows way too much about him. "You wont regret it."

Patrick's not really sure about that. Still, he pockets the change in his guitar case and packs up. He feels kind of sick- fuzzy.


	2. In Between- Glenn/Daryl, PG

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set pre-series. Glenn is left alone after the news of the outbreak. Daryl finds him in the woods, and tries to help him out.

Atlanta is on fire.

Glenn can feel the flames a mile out, heat on his back and shoulders, sinking in through his shirts. There's pileups on the highway miles long and getting longer, crying children clutched in crying mothers' arms. Atlanta is burning and their lives are nothing but where they stand now.

Someone is playing their radio loudly, the Emergency Broadcast blaring across the lanes. Glenn can't really hear what it's saying, but he's heard enough from the murmurs around him. The dead aren't really dead, and anyone who moves so much as a finger into their reach is as good as dead too.

Glenn feels like he's going to crawl straight out of his skin, sweating and confused and suddenly terrified like he hadn't been before. The news had made it sound like a virus to be treated in the hospitals. They hadn't said a damn word about helicopters dropping napalm onto the damn city, people and all.

The realization that his mother is in there, his sisters, hits him like a fist in the gut. Glenn stumbles, falling off the road and into the ditch. If the monsters didn't get them, the fire will. He's not sure which one makes him sicker. 

Someone way up on the highway shouts. Glenn hisses when he steps up onto the shoulder of the road, ankle giving a twinge that goes all the way up. It's twisted, throbbing a little when he tries to put weight on it. The shouts from up the road are getting louder.

There's a group of people hobbling toward the city. Glenn can barely make them out against the setting sun, but they're advancing slowly and surely like a herd of sheep. It's only when he sees the man in front's severed arm that he realizes that it's one of the things the government has been warning them about for days.

Glenn swallows down a bubble of terrified laughter. Zombie, he wants to say. No one ever calls them zombies in horror films, but he knows that's what they are. Fucking zombies like Romero, shuffling and moaning and eating every man woman and child they come across.

To his back is the flames of Atlanta. His front, a herd of monsters wearing parts of people's faces. There's woods off the road that he's been in before once or twice. He doesn't have a weapon and his ankle is already starting to hurt from just standing, but the woods are his best bet so far.

It doesn't hit him until he's half a mile from the highway that he has no idea where he's going.

There isn't anywhere to go. Atlanta has been his home for his entire life. He doesn't have family anywhere else, and even if he did, he's not naive enough to believe that the disease hasn't spread everywhere. He thinks about Left for Dead and its convenient safe houses. He doubts the government are going to save them.

His ankle twists again, enough to make him shout. Glenn drops to his knees, breathing through his mouth. He can taste the dirt and rotting leaves in the air, thick and earthy against his tongue. Night has officially fallen, and he's alone in a world that's turned into a horror movie. This time, he doesn't bother trying not to laugh. 

Something cracks behind him. Glenn tries to swallow down his hysterical laughter, but he can’t. He can’t make himself look back, can’t make his survival instincts kick in. What is there to survive for? He closes his eyes and listens to the sound getting closer. 

The gunshot scares the hell out of him. 

“You trying to get yourself killed?” The voice sounds muffled. Glenn can barely hear it over the ringing in his ears, even though he’s pretty sure that he’s yelling. “Come on.” There’s a man holding a gun. He’s holding a gun and pointing it just behind Glenn’s head, and Glenn can’t do a damn thing but get up and do as he’s told.

“Where are we going?” He asks, stumbling over a fallen branch. 

“Does it matter?” The man asks. There’s a crossbow strapped across his back, fitted like he’s worn it his whole life. He leads them through the trees silently, crouched low, gun raised like he’s hunting. 

“Who are you?” Glenn can still hear the screams from the highway. 

“Daryl,” the man snarls. “You want to play tea party or you want to get somewhere safe?” Glenn shuts up. 

They make it to a clearing just when Glenn’s ankle threatens to really give out. When he looks up he can see the deer blind up one of the trees. Someone’s inside it, peering out the door, gun raised. It’s as good as any place to hide, but Glenn can’t imagine all three of them will fit easily.

“Go on,” Daryl says. He motions to the ladder, looking over his shoulder toward the woods. The sounds of the screams have faded, but Glenn can hear their echoes in his ears. How many are dead? “We ain’t got all day.”

The ladder up is made of rope and rough cuts of wood, double and triple knotted. The rungs catch on the soft places of his palms, splinters settling in. He’s never had any thoughts about hunting, has never killed anything bigger than a spider. If this is really a- a zombie thing, that’s going to have to change.

He can feel Daryl right behind him on the ladder, shaking the rope with his weight.


	3. and i'll be you, Pete/Patrick/Joe, NC-17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally for the So, So Dirty challenge on LJ. Shameless sweaty boy porn. Set in 2002-ish in the old Chicago apartment.

They shove him up against the wall before he’s even gotten the chance to kick his shoes off. 

Pete can smell the mud stuck to his shins, can feel the itch of grass clippings against his skin. When Patrick shoves a hand up his shirt, it slides wetly against the sweat there. Pete’s thighs ache from running, his lungs still sore from the game, but there’s no way he’s going to shove them away when they’re like this.

“The air’s broken again,” Joe says, wriggling up against Pete’s side. He’s in a pair of threadbare boxers, hair plastered down to his forehead in damp, loose curls. His skin is clammy where it touches Pete’s. 

“We couldn’t fix it,” Patrick says. He’s damp too, old t-shirt clinging to his shoulders and chest. They’ve been in the shower, cooling down without him. Patrick slides two fingers under the edge of Pete’s soccer shorts, toying with the waistband. Pete used to think he was the sweet one. Sometimes it’s good to be wrong.

Pete jerks his shirt off, ignoring the wet slap of it on the hardwood floor. The wall against his back is warm, sticks to him. When Patrick runs his nails down Pete’s chest he leaves thick clean streaks behind, dirt collecting on his fingers. 

“I’ll fix it later,” Pete says, catching Patrick around the back of the neck. Patrick’s laughing when Pete kisses him, squirming for space. Pete feels like he’s going to melt. Between the summer air and the hot crush of Joe and Patrick against him, he can barely breathe.

This thing they have- the three of them heaped up on floors and beds and anywhere that can support them- it keeps Pete guessing. He’d walked in on them once, Patrick on his knees, Joe’s hand in his hair, and instead of walking out like a good roommate- like a good friend- he’d stared, doorknob slick in his fist. It wasn’t until later, hours after Joe had called him over, that Pete realized they had wanted to get caught.

Patrick pulls away. His hair has dried into a stiff mass of spikes, grown out barely past his temples. His tongue slips over his lower lip unconsciously as he watches Joe mouth at Pete’s collarbones, eyes dark. Pete can see his skin through wet patches of his t-shirt. His dick jerks in his shorts. Jesus, he’s got it good.

Pete whines when Joe backs away too, grabbing at Joe’s hips. His hands slide off Joe’s sweat slick skin, falling uselessly to his sides. He leans back against the wall, head thunking against the plaster as he settles in. He likes to watch, and no one puts on a show like they do.

They kiss slow and easy, one of Joe’s hands slipping up into Patrick’s shirt. Patrick, he’s a biter, teeth flashing white around the pale pink of Joe’s bottom lip. Pete slides a hand into his shorts, swallowing around the dryness in his throat. On his way home from the soccer field, he’d planned on a quick shower and a nap. This- this is so much better.

Joe hooks his thumbs in the waist of Patrick’s boxers, inching them down without looking. Pete stares shamelessly, sucks in a sharp breath when Patrick’s cock pops out. It rests against Joe’s thigh, dull red and shiny at the tip. He moans when Joe wraps a hand around him, pressing his hips up into it. Pete jerks himself off in time to Joe’s slow strokes. They look so good together. 

Patrick rolls his hips in small circles, fingers digging into the lean line of Joe's bicep. Pete can see a bead of sweat tumble down the curve of Joe's back and onto the waistband of his boxers. It leaves a dark patch behind and Pete stares at it for a moment, mouth itching to be on one of them.

Patrick kisses Joe's throat, a wet sound that echoes in the front hall. He turns his head and grins at Pete, all teeth and pink lips, before biting the soft curve of Joe's shoulder. The sound Joe makes sends heat down Pete's spine. When Patrick pulls back there's a dark mark left behind, round and bruised. Sometimes, Pete thinks they fuck with him just because they can.

Patrick drops ungracefully to the floor, the squeaky sound of his skin slipping against the floor making Pete’s throat go dry. His dick stands out from under the curtain of his tshirt, fat and slick at the head. When he settles down, the curve of his bare ass peeks out over his boxers. 

The heat in the hall is sweltering, sinking up under Pete’s skin and taking him prisoner. He shoves his shorts off and leans back against the door, ass pressing against the wood. He wants to touch them, hands twitching against his stomach. He watches Patrick’s mouth sink down over Joe’s dick and groans. Joe’s thighs shake. Pete’s done watching.

He pushes off the wall and steps out of his shorts, kicking them off to the side. There’s a muffled laugh from Patrick when Pete kneels behind him, a strangled sound from Joe. Up close, Pete can smell the sweat of them, feels the heat of their bodies. He presses his face to the damp space between Patrick’s shoulderblades, the cotton sticking to his cheek, and breathes him in.

Patrick’s so soft. Pete runs a hand over his side, tucks his hand up under Patrick’s shirt to feel his slick skin. Every time Patrick bobs his head, his ass pushes back against Pete’s thighs. Pete tangles the fingers of his free hand into Patrick’s hair and guides his motions, pushes him down slowly until Patrick’s nose is pressed to Joe’s stomach.

When he pulls Patrick's head back by the hair, Patrick coughs. He shivers against Pete's chest, tipping backwards into the tug of Pete's hand. There's something almost sweet about the way Joe touches his face, about the way his thumb traces the curve of Patrick's thick lower lip.

These two, they're synched in the head. Pete can watch them until the stars burn out, but he'll never be on that inside wave. He digs his nails into the fleshy softness of Patrick's side and shoves his head back down against Joe's hip. He doesn't need their wavelength to have this.

The heavy smell of grass is still clinging to him, getting stronger the more he sweats. There's a smear of dirt on Patrick's calf, a block of mud on his boxers where they're riding down over his ass. Pete wants to make him dirty. Wants to leave a mark.

Pete watches Patrick lick a line up Joe's hip, watches the curl of his pink little tongue in the crease of Joe's thigh. He's so hard it hurts, balls aching between his thighs. He wants to fuck one of them into the floor, leave a stain in the shape of their bodies in the hardwood for someone else to find. He's not going to get the chance- there's no lube here, and there's no way they're moving into a bedroom- but he can wait.

"Lift up," he says, letting go of Patrick's hair. When Patrick rises up onto his knees, his underwear sip down to the middle of his thighs, trapping his legs together.

One of Joe's hands snake down, skinny fingers and broad palm, press against the base of Patrick's spine until he's arching into it to stay on his knees. Pete leans in long enough to lick a path over each one of Joe's fingers, salt sticking to his tongue, before shoving Patrick's boxers down as far as they'll go.

Patrick gasps when Pete fists his cock. He pushes into the ring of Pete's fingers easily, his quiet little moans muffled into the flat plane of Joe's stomach. He goes easily when Joe guides his mouth back to his dick. 

Pete runs his fingers over the firm lines of Patrick's thighs, opening them up. He can see Patrick's balls hanging heavy through the gap, can see his own fist moving slowly. Above him, Joe's breathing has gotten quicker, rougher, a heavy rasp that Pete can barely hear over the sound of blood rushing in his ears.

Pete spits into his free hand, slicks his cock up. There's a muffled laugh from one of them as Pete slides himself between Patrick's thighs. Pete tightens his fingers around Patrick, rides the bucking gleefully.

"Are you in high school again?" Joe asks, breathless.

His skinny chest is heaving, pink all the way down. Pete rolls his hips forward, thighs sticking to the clammy skin of Patrick's. He hears the wet sound of Patrick gagging, does it again. 

“Fuck off, Trohman,” Pete says. His stomach hits Patrick’s ass when he thrusts, makes a louder sound than actual fucking does. 

Patrick’s skin slips against his, sweaty.


	4. In the Yellow Time of Pollen, Patrick/Michael Day, NC-17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sex pollen fic, set in 2011 during Patrick's solo tour. Little to no plot at all. Usual warning for dubcon.

Patrick actually really enjoys talking to fans. They're always so energetic. It's refreshing. A little weird sometimes, but refreshing.

"I'm Jonah," the kid in front of him is saying. He's probably just hitting eighteen, still a little awkward in his skin. He towers over Patrick, all neon yellow shirt and floppy red hair.

"I'm Patrick."

Jonah laughs and rubs the back of his neck with a giant hand. He pulls a plastic bag out of his bookbag and holds it up awkwardly, says, "my sister's kind of a baking nut. She wanted me to give this to you."

"Oh, hey." Patrick takes the bag and looks inside. There's a cookie roughly the size of his palm sitting inside. On sight of it, Patrick's stomach grumbles. "That's awesome." He pulls it out and breaks off a chunk, popping it into his mouth. It's soft and sweet, and wow. He's starving. "It's really good. Tell her thanks?"

"Yeah, definitely." Jonah shifts nervously in front of him, biting his lip. Patrick shoves another chunk of cookie into his mouth. Jonah's the last fan around. As soon as they're done, Patrick's dragging the crew to the nearest Denny's. Behind him, he can hear someone coming down the steps of the bus. "Can I, uh, get a hug?"

"Yeah, totally," Patrick laughs. He's never quite gotten used to people wanting to touch him, but he's a pretty tactile person. A hug never hurt anyone.

As he's stepping forward to hug the kid, he feels a hand on his back, pressure that means that whoever's behind him tripped down the crooked last step. The world narrows down to that hand.

Patrick can feel the heat of it through his shirt, can feel the knobs of knuckles brushing against him as whoever- Michael, Patrick's body supplies, has to be Michael- pulls away. He keeps moving, wraps his arms around Jonah and tugs him in close, but he can't stop thinking about Michael touching him.

When he pulls away, his hands are shaking. Patrick shoves them into his pockets and steps back, tries to laugh. The sound gets stuck in his throat, dry like autumn.

"Are you okay?" Jonah asks. He's smiling. Patrick feels like he's going to fall over.

"Patrick?" Michael asks. He steadies Patrick's elbow, long fingers curling around Patrick's arm. Patrick's knees give out. 

There's a blur of sidewalk and then he's being hefted up, voices around him melting into one. All he can feel is Michael pressed up against his side, holding him steady as he tries not to fall over. It's a heatwave throughout him, burning him up from the inside out. His stomach is revolting, churning. He's going to be sick. 

They're moving, going up. Patrick feels a hand on his wrist, tugging him down, but someone- Michael, familiar voice, familiar shape and size to the sound- shouts and makes it let go. Patrick bounces against the door then smacks into Michael, stumbles through the bus on weak legs. There's a crowd around him, all the people that he's been living with for days, but he can only feel Michael.

"Make them go away," he slurs, reaching blindly for Michael's shirt. His middle finger slips between two buttons, skips across the warm, worn cotton undershirt underneath. He feels like there's electricity trying to take over his bones. 

"Who do you want to go away?" Michael asks. He sounds so concerned, voice right up inside Patrick's ear. 

"All of them." Patrick's tongue feels heavy in his mouth.

"Okay, okay, just-" Michael lays him down in his bunk, turns him on his side gently. When he gets up, Patrick grabs hold of his wrist.

"Stay." It's a jumble of sound, not really a word anymore, but Michael nods, peels his fingers away carefully.

"I'll be right back," he says, and then Patrick can't see him anymore, the blackout curtains the only thing in front of him. A few moments later, the bus shakes under him as people leave, the slam of the door up front like a gunshot. Patrick curls into a ball. 

Something was in that cookie, and it's making him sick.

"Patrick?" Michael asks, kneeling down next to the bed. Patrick blinks open his eyes and moans softly. Everything aches. "I'm going to get you out of your wet clothes, okay?" 

Michael doesn't wait for him to say anything, just slips a finger into the back of Patrick's shoe and slips it off gently. Now that it's been mentioned, Patrick can feel the dampness of his shirt against his back, the way his pants are clinging to his clammy thighs. His second shoe hits the floor gently, followed by his socks. He tries to undo his own shirt buttons but his fingers feel tingly, numb like he's been drinking. 

"Can you sit up?" Michael asks. Probably not. Patrick tries anyway, lifting himself onto his elbows. Michael catches him when he starts to fall back, helping him lean against the back wall. The sound of the buttons slipping through the buttonholes scratches over his eardrums. His focus narrows down to the long line of Michael's fingers undoing his shirt easily, sharp and clear. His breathing hitches when he feels wide palms skimming his shoulders through his undershirt, pushing the button down off. 

The sleeves get tangled around his wrists, and when Michael leans in to pop the buttons there, Patrick can smell his shampoo. It makes him dizzy. When one hand is free he slides it through Michael's hair, feels the gel left over crunch between his fingers. It feels so good, grounds him. He does it again, even though Michael's looking up at him, frowning and confused.

"Patrick?" He asks, head cocking. His cheek brushes against Patrick's palm, smooth and soft.

"You feel good," Patrick says. When Michael puts the back of his hand to Patrick's forehead, Patrick presses into it. 

"You're burning up," Michael says softly. His mouth is moving in slow motion, lips wrapping around the words like they're tangible. Patrick reaches forward and touches them, feels the soft skin under his fingertips. "We should call the doctor." Patrick's fingertips glide across the inside of his lip, the tip of Michael's tongue brushing over them as he speaks. The current under Patrick's skin spikes. The pain in his stomach moves down, settles between his hips.

"I'm hot," he whines, tugging weakly at his tshirt. It feels wet. He's sweating like he just got off stage. 

Michael pulls it off of him, bracing him with one hand to the side as he lifts it up. It feels like a brand sinking down into Patrick's ribs, etching its imprint inside of him. The wet slap of his shirt hitting the floor makes them both wince. Patrick's still too hot. He squirms, one hand flopping down onto his bare belly. If he can get his pants off, it won't be as hot. He'll be able to breathe. 

He fumbles with the buttons, eyes closing as he concentrates on moving his fingers. The world behind his eyes is a blur of colors and shapes, staticky like scrambled stations on cable. He feels Michael's hand close around his, feels him undo the buttons one, two, three, hand shaking almost as much as Patrick's. When Patrick looks down at him, his cheeks are pink, his eyes averted. He's embarrassed. 

"You've seen me in my underwear before," Patrick says. A few words bounce into each other, Patrick's lazy tongue too thick to work right. Michael coughs and tugs at Patrick's pants until they peel free from his skin. His thighs look pale against his sheets, boxer briefs rucked up high. There's a damp spot on them, small but growing. Patrick's hard, the line of his cock glaringly obvious. He hadn't even noticed. 

"Do you want me to get you anything?" Michael asks. He's very carefully only looking at Patrick's face, the blush working its way down into his collar. Patrick wants to lie down. His head hurts. 

He tips over onto his side, sliding down the wall. His back sticks, makes a sound against the metal. Michael brushes his damp bangs out of his eyes and frowns. He asks, “do you want me to call the hospital? We can get someone out here, or we can drive to a hospital-”

“Keep me company,” Patrick says. He presses his hips into the mattress, sighing softly. He’s got a fire inside him that won’t burn out, and all of it is shifting its way down into his dick. He laughs into his pillow. It’s so stupid. 

“I’m right here,” Michael says. His voice sounds tight. He tentatively pats Patrick’s back, the rough butt of his palm right between Patrick’s shoulder blades. Patrick shoves up into it like a cat. His hips jerk again, cock trapped between him and the mattress. It feels so good. Everything feels so good. “Are you sure you don’t want me to-”

Patrick rolls out of the bunk.

He lands on top of Michael, knocking him flat on the floor. He hears Michael’s back hitting the bunk across the way, knows it has to hurt, but he can’t stop moving, can’t stop himself from crawling into Michael’s lap. Everything feels better when Michael’s touching him, and the more Michael’s touching him the better. 

“Patrick-”

“Take your shirt off,” Patrick says. He’s embarrassed once the words are out, but he doesn’t take them back. 

“Patrick-”

“You feel so good,” Patrick says again, one hand untucking Michael’s shirt from his slacks. He undoes the bottom few buttons before sliding his hand up under Michael’s undershirt, feels the shivery muscles of his belly. 

“Patrick, I’m worried about you-”

Patrick kisses him. Fireworks blow off in the back of his brain, send shocks through him. Michael’s still under him, mouth open enough that Patrick can slip his tongue inside, can map him out. He feels mindless, driven by something outside of him like a puppet. 

He whines when Michael pushes him away gently, hands strong on Patrick’s shoulders. Patrick’s mouth buzzes. He wants to kiss him again, wants to crawl into his skin and never come back out. He tries to lean in, but Michael won’t let him budge. 

“You make it stop hurting,” Patrick says. His own voice sounds far away. 

“You’re not healthy. I can’t-”

“Please,” Patrick says. He slumps, makes himself dead weight. He might not be a big guy any more, but he’s still too much for Michael to hold up. The kid outside drugged him. Patrick can feel it slithering up his veins, sharp and needy, taking over his brain and his hands and his aching dick. “I need you.”

“I can’t do anything when you’re like this,” Michael says. His voice wavers though, weak. Patrick just has to ask one more time and he’ll be putty in Patrick’s hands. Patrick jerks at the folds of Michael’s shirt until the buttons give, one dropping pathetically off onto the floor. 

“But I want you to,” Patrick says, shoving the shirt off Michael’s shoulders. It sticks at his elbows, trapping them, and Patrick leaves it there. Michael doesn’t fight it, doesn’t really move at all. When Patrick leans in to kiss him again, he kisses back, slow and sweet and a little sad. 

He lets Patrick push his shirt up his chest, makes a soft sound when Patrick leans down to press a ring of kisses around his navel. His skin is so cool, soft enough that Patrick’s lips skid over it without catching. His breath hitches when Patrick reaches for his fly.

“I don’t want you to regret anything in the morning,” Michael says, the words stuttery as Patrick unzips his slacks. Patrick laughs.

“No one’s going to regret anything,” Patrick promises. The ache in his hips feels like the burn after a run, pulsing in his joints. He nearly topples off Michael’s lap when he tries to inch his jeans down, knee crashing against the floor. Michael doesn’t help him at all, stays still as Patrick takes his jeans off. When he’s in his boxers, he lifts his knees, shimmies until his shirt falls away.

“I think we should take you to the doctor’s,” Michael says. Patrick runs a hand up his shin, cups his knee. He can feel the heat underneath his skin, feels every hair like a pinprick against his palm. He can’t stop touching. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you-”

Patrick shoves his way between Michael’s knees. His underwear are digging into his skin, too much friction to be comfortable. He can remember getting high with Joe at seventeen, can remember the way his fingers felt like they were expanding, skin stretched too tight over his bones. He kind of feels like that now, desperate to keep all his insides on the inside. Michael makes him feel put together. Makes him feel like he’s not going to rip apart at the seams.

“Please,” Patrick says, leaning in to press his lips to Michael’s jaw. “Let me make you feel good too.” He slides his hand against Michael’s crotch, feel his dick get hard under his palm. “You want it.”

“I’m not going to take advantage of you,” Michael says. Patrick can see his Adam’s apple bob, can feel the way he’s getting harder in his boxer briefs. Patrick crooks his fingers into the slit at the front and smiles at the sharp breath Michael takes. 

“I think I’m taking advantage of you,” he says, ducking his head down. He feels like the world is swimming around him.

He nuzzles his face into Michael’s stomach, feels the way the muscles go tense through his tshirt. When he pulls Michael’s cock through the slit of his underwear, it’s only half hard. Patrick squirms on the dirty ground, scrunches down between Michael’s legs. His mouth aches, feels like he’s been sucking on hard candy all day.

“Patrick, I-” Michael cuts off when Patrick licks a slow line up his dick. 

The dizziness in Patrick’s head ratchets up, but the dryness in his mouth fades. He swallows and does it again. A third time. He feels like he’s a scratched out record, stuck on repeat. Michael twitches against his tongue, the sound of his nails scratching against the floor loud in the silent bus. 

He wraps his lips around the head of Michael’s cock and groans. His lips tingle, mouth watering. This is what he’s been wanting, this is what he’s needed. Michael makes a choked off sound that sends a sharp spike through Patrick’s spine.


	5. Soldier in the Cupboard, Sherlock Gen, PG

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginnings of what would be a Indian in the Cupboard AU.

Mycroft hands him the box when they're getting ready to leave. It's heavy and solid, old wood hand carved by his father's father's grandfather's two hands. It's been in the family for decades, collecting dust in one home or another. Sherlock hasn't seen it in years.

"I don't want reminders of dead people," Sherlock says, trying to force the cabinet back into his brother's hands. It is nearly as large as his chest, thin and long. There's dirt in the engravings, old.

"They are not dead people," Mycroft hisses, face turning a dark shade of red. "They were our parents, and the least you can do is speak of them as such."

"I don't need reminders of them in my home. My existence alone is enough proof of them." Sherlock huffs when it becomes clear that Mycroft isn't going to take the box back. "What am I supposed to do with this?"

"Use it as a spice rack for all I care," Mycroft snaps. "Mummy wanted you to have this, and you're damn well going to take it." Mycroft smoothes a hand over his slicked back hair and visibly straightens himself out. "For once in your life, can you just do as I ask?"

Sherlock refuses to give him an affirmative. Instead, he turns and sulks out of his patents' old home and shoves the cupboard into the cab waiting for him. He'll take the damn thing.


	6. The Size of Our Faults, Steve/Bucky, PG-13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-series. Originally meant to be size kink/good ol' fashioned gay angst.

Bucky’s never considered himself to be a big guy. All his life he’s been average- average height and average smarts and average moral code. He’s walked the center line since he was born, and that’s always been enough. And then came Steve.

Little Steve with his scrawny arms and his big, dinner plate eyes and his stupid faith in Justice with a capital J. Bucky hates him sometimes, in a way that makes him feel small and bitter on the inside. He’s a no good bum on the best of days, and a sinner on the worst. And Steve- Steve’s a god damn saint.

“It’s okay,” Steve says as Bucky palms his cheek. He puts his warm hand on Bucky’s and his skin feels smooth and cool. When he smiles, it looks like his mouth is taking over his entire face. He’s almost a foot shorter than Bucky with his back steel straight. “I want you to. If you want to.”

Steve’s mama’s been dead for a year, but he still lives in her house. Bucky’s given him some lip service about taking him in, but they both know Steve would rather work himself into the grave than let someone else take care of him. It feels wrong to be touching him like this with her things all around them.

Bucky runs his thumb across the smooth, arcing sweep of Steve’s cheekbone. The skin feels fragile and thin, stretched just a little too tight over the bones of Steve’s face. His fingers span all the way from Steve’s jaw to the damp roots of his hairline.


	7. Carbon and Bad Timing, Pete/Patrick, PG-13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A deleted scene from [Carbon and Bad Timing](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1116847). Established relationship, reference to pony play.

Patrick has to borrow a pair of swim trunks from Pete. They're a little tight around his middle, but it's all he's got. Pete drives barefoot and shirtless all the way to Milwaukee, the windows down and the radio all the way up. In the backseat, Joe's wailing along to Hall and Oates, voice catching on the wind. This is Patrick's band and he loves them.

Andy greets them as cheerfully as he does anything. The other guys in the apartment are in the kitchen, crowded around vegan pizzas. The pristine double sink is filled with ice on both sides, beer in one half and soda in the other. Patrick pokes at a bottle of beer but takes a Pepsi when Andy frowns at him. Best behavior. Right.

The pizzas taste kind of funny- vegan cheese will never, ever live up to its cow-made cousin- but the conversation is quality and the company is good. Matt lets him fiddle with the record player set up in the living room and doesn’t complain when Patrick asks a dozen questions.

He’s still thumbing through the house’s collective record collection when the decision to head out to the pool is made. He doesn’t particularly want to go out into the heat, but he also doesn’t want to look rude or antisocial. Best behavior.

“I,” Joe says grandly, drawing himself up to his full height, “am declaring chicken.” He looks down his nose at Pete before breaking into a run and diving into the pool. The splash he makes is spectacular. Andy, Ryan, and Kyle hook their fingers over their noses and look expectantly at Matt.

“I didn’t agree to this,” Patrick says at the pool. Joe, who is underwater, waves. 

Pete isn’t looking at him. Patrick’s pretty sure they’re thinking about the same thing. It’s not- it’s not _riding_ , but it’s pretty close to what Patrick has been looking into. He presses his shoulder into Pete’s, trying not to look too obvious. If Pete’s up for it, he is too. 

“May the best man win,” Matt says seriously, holding his hand out. It eclipses Patrick’s entirely. Patrick shakes, even though he knows the odds are stacked impossibly high against him. Literally. 

Matt and Pete slide into the pool side by side. Matt, who knows exactly how cold the water is going to be, doesn’t flinch. Pete screeches like a little girl. Between that and the spectacle of Joe trying to crawl onto Matt’s shoulders, Patrick’s too busy laughing to be nervous about popping one off in the middle of an innocent game. 

Pete wobbles a little as Patrick slides from the edge of the pool onto his shoulders. The cold water creeps up Patrick’s ankles. He really, really doesn’t want to go in. Pete locks his arms around Patrick’s knees and waddle walks to the center of the pool where Joe and Matt are waiting.

“The rules are simple,” Joe says, his lispy lilting voice carrying over the breeze. On Matt’s shoulders, he’s at least a foot higher up than Patrick. “No grabbing clothes and no shoving from the party on the bottom. Loser drives home naked.”

“That’s illegal,” Patrick says, even as he tightens his legs around Pete’s ribs. The fingers curled around his ankles tighten. “And illegal.”

“Chicken, Stump?” Joe asks. He sits up, fists on his hips. The sudden movement nearly topples Matt over.

“Hope you like the breeze,” Pete says, leering up at him. “Let’s get this show on the road, kids. I can’t feel my nads.” Patrick grabs Joe’s arms and holds on. From a chair at the edge of the pool, Andy gives them a lazy countdown. 

It’s a mess. Patrick can’t get a good grip, and Pete’s wobbling around too much to use as leverage. The cold water keeps splashing up against his stomach. This was a bad plan.

Pete's damp hair tickles against the insides of Patrick's knees. It's not distracting enough to make him lose focus on staying mostly vertical, but it's a constant presence that makes him feel strange. Matt and Joe have been talking shit the whole time, snorting at their own jokes, but Pete has been suspiciously silent. Patrick hopes the others haven't noticed.

The struggle doesn't last that long, in the end. Patrick is actually pretty strong for his size and Joe has to hunch down to reach him properly. As Joe's leaning down, Matt tries to catch his balance on the slow slope of the floor of the pool. They all see it coming, but no one can stop it. Matt's head crashes against Joe's balls and, in slow motion, Joe falls into a backflop onto the water. 

Applause explodes from the sides of the pool. Patrick grins at his adoring audience and squeezes his calves around Pete’s ribs.

“You can go once around the pool,” he says quietly. Part of him hopes that Pete doesn’t hear.

“You sure?” Pete asks, even as he begins to wade toward the far end. His arms wind tighter around Patrick’s legs. 

“If you drop me,” Patrick says, hands flittering from Pete’s ears to the short cut of his hair. He wishes he had something to hold onto. “If you drop me, I swear to god I will never suck your dick again.”

Pete laughs. It’s loud and braying, bouncing off the water. Patrick throws his arms up to make it look like a proper victory lap, but Joe’s catastrophe is the last thing on his mind. The ride is slowed down by the slosh of water around his thighs.


	8. It's Only a Game, Pete/Patrick, PG-13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick joins the basketball team of his community college. Pete is the sports reporter.

Patrick's not going to freak out. He's not. Okay, maybe a little in the car, but that's it. It's not like he's trying out for the Bulls or anything. It's just the shitty little college team, and he's good enough, and, good god, they're all going to be giants.

The gym is sort of gigantic, all smooth, shiny floor and bleachers and balcony seats. It's nothing like his old high school gym, which, duh. But Patrick hadn't really expected exactly how different it would be. He hefts his duffle up higher on his shoulder, shifting uncomfortably in his lucky shorts- which were Hurley's once, but are Patrick's for good now- and steps in.

Patrick's a little early, but he'd rather be early than late, so he makes his way to the locker room, taking in the pennants and the awards tacked up on the walls, his footsteps echoing. The locker room is a little more familiar- they all look identical- and Patrick feels himself relax as he slumps down onto one of the benches, letting his duffle drop to the floor at his feet.

This is Hurley's fault. Patrick loves the dude like a brother, he does, but this might be taking it too far. Signing him up for classes at the community college? Awesome. Let him at it. Scribbling his name down on an application for a part-time job at the little record shop down the street? Cool, Patrick likes music. Forcing him to try out for the basketball team? Not quite as on.

"You'll kick ass," Andy had said, shoving Patrick's gym shit into the duffel he'd brought his things in nearly a year ago. "And if anyone gives you shit about your size, head butt them in the nuts."

Patrick grins to himself and feels the tension draining out of his shoulders. He's got this. He's cool. He's-

"Hey, I'm Travis," a giant with a bushy hair says as he walks through the door. Patrick tries not to let his fear show. They can smell it or some shit.

"Patrick." Patrick shakes the guy's huge hand without standing up. At the level he's at now, he can totally take Andy's advice.

"Cool." Travis flops down next to him. He smells a little like pot, but he's also got a really nice, dopey sort of smile.

A few minutes later, two more men pushing the over-a-foot-taller than Patrick mark waltz in arm-in-arm, their matching purple shorts both creepily bright and a little endearing. They introduce themselves as Gabe and William, and they both seem to already know Travis, so it doesn't feel as awkward as it could when they plop onto the floor, chattering to one another.

"You're a pocket-sized little dude," Gabe says. It doesn't seem like an insult, more like an observation, so Patrick just shrugs. Gabe grins at him like he's passed a test.

They're joined shortly by Bob- a hulking blond dude that looks a little like a viking but has a soft grin- and Spencer- a kid that's somehow younger than Patrick with diva hips and a bitchface that makes Patrick cringe a little- and Mixon- "no, seriously, I'll probably forget who you're talking about if you call me Matt".

While, yeah, all of them are bigger, they're all pretty cool dudes, and Patrick finds himself talking excitedly to William and Bob about street hoops in Chicago, Gabe interjecting a comment here and there. No one's made a short joke or called him out on the pudge around his middle, and Patrick's maybe not so freaked out anymore.

Coach Schecter arrives at one-fifteen on the dot. He's compact and covered in ink and looks stern around the mouth. He's young, maybe only a few years out of college himself, but he demands attention and all seven of them hop to give it to him.

"So, you're all in," Schecter says tightly, looking at them, "and if you find anyone on the streets, call them in, too."

"Basketball doesn't really fill the slots," William murmurs to Patrick when Schecter turns away, muttering to himself.

"Let's see what you've got," he says, leading them back out to the gym. Part of Patrick is relieved- he made the team, awesome- but the other part's disappointed after all the hype in his head.

They team up four against three. Patrick's on the three team with Gabe and Spencer. At Schecter's whistle, they line up, and Gabe cackles as he shoves Patrick to the center to face off against Travis.

Schecter blows the whistle again and tosses the ball into the air. Travis is either trying to give Patrick a fair shot or he's slow, but no matter what it is, Patrick's jumped up- short legs, a little heavy, but quick- and snatched the ball out of the air before Travis even reaches for it, tossing it over his shoulder to Gabe, trying not to look smug at the awe on Gabe's face.

Patrick doesn't get underestimated again. William stays on him, all lean arms and long wingspan as Gabe passes to Spencer, jogging down court. Patrick feints right, grinning as William automatically reaches to the left, and sprints past him, catching the ball as Spencer chucks it at him.

Spencer's got one hell of an arm, and Patrick feels himself go a little breathless as the rubber smacks square into his chest. Bob's closing in behind him, which means he can't try to catch his breath. Gabe whoops as Patrick takes a jump shot. The ball bounces off the backboard and Patrick has a brief moment of _please for the love of god go in_ before the ball rounds the net and drops in.

Mixon claps him on the back as he jogs by to grab the ball back up, grinning wide. Patrick grins back and tries to pretend that he doesn't feel like he's just proved himself to all of them. 

In the end team four wins, but it's a close game. Schecter- call me Brian, Jesus Christ, dudes- looks like he's going to cry in relief. He congratulates them all on a game we'll played and lays out their practice schedule. Patrick tries not to laugh at the completely obvious glances Bob keeps sending Brian as he talks.

Patrick accepts a ride home from Mixon after a quick round of showers. Patrick's hair is dripping on the cloth covering the seat, even though most of it is tucked under a hat, and his too big t-shirt is sticking to his back, and his thighs feel a little sore, but the day's been awesome.

"So, yeah, no, we should play sometime," Mixon says as he pulls up the driveway to Andy's apartment.

"You mean like how we'll be playing every other day of the next forever?" Patrick asks, eyebrows raised. Matt snorts, his wide grin still plastered on.

"I was going for a little more one-on-one," Mixon says, winking. It's Patrick's turn to snort. "You're actually pretty awesome."

"So I'm told," Patrick agrees, a hot flush working up the back of his neck. "So, Andy sort of cooks for an army instead of two. You want dinner?"

"You've stolen my heart, little man." Mixon cuts the engine and follows after Patrick like they've known each other for years.

"How'd it go?" Andy shouts from the kitchen. Patrick can just barely see the brightly colored flat of his back moving back and forth across the small space and feels the familiar crawl of home settling into his bones.

"Great," Patrick calls back. "I made the team."

"You're sort of hard pressed not to," Matt adds, flopping down into a kitchen chair, watching Andy cook whatever bean concoction he's managed to stir up. "I'm Mixon. Patrick's told me absolutely nothing about you."

"He's got shitty manners," Andy says, wiping his hands off on his jeans before holding one out to shake. "Andy. Patrick's keeper."

"Charmed, dude." Mixon's grin goes softer at the edges, his eyes darker, and Patrick quietly accepts that he's been cock-blocked by Hurley's general awesome. It happens.

Dinner is filled with stories about tryouts- "if you can call it that"- with Patrick and Mixon jumping over each other to tell the exciting parts. Andy listens, half smirking into his lentil-loaf.

When dinner's done and Mixon's headed home- with the house number scrawled on the back of his hand in Sharpie- Patrick gives Andy a quick hug. Andy doesn't say anything, but he hugs back.

\---

Practices kind of suck. Brian's awesome- funny in a dry sort of way, sarcastic and quick witted- but he's also a slave driver. Patrick's thighs have never ached so much in ever, and he's managed to lose six pounds even though he's been stuffing his face at every opportunity.

it's working though. All of them were decent players to begin with, but with Brian's insistence on doing things like suicide runs- Patrick's _thighs_ , oh god- they've managed to improve drastically.

Gabe's the quickest. William's the best at catching rebounds. Bob and Spencer are neck and neck for best defender, and Travis is by far the king at shooting three pointers. Mixon's got the best aim, but generally chooses to pass instead of shoot. And, somehow, Patrick is the best shooter.

Brian drills them hard on their strengths and harder on their weaknesses. While Bob and Spencer run suicides, Gabe and William pass two balls between themselves. Patrick is stuck with Travis, working on defense. Like a six-foot dude isn't just going to run his ass over.

They're one week away from playing their first game, but that feels something like forever away. Patrick hasn't gone out to play street ball with Andy since the beginning and he feels a little guilty about it. Like he's traded Hurley for something else.

Brian's not so big on pep talks, but he gives them a quick _looking good, guys_ before dismissing them. Patrick doesn't even bother to head for the showers. He's got Hurley's car on loan and all he wants to do is race home and curl up in his sweaty clothes and sleep. And maybe eat an entire cow.

The best laid plans of mice and men are often flawed. Patrick finds himself accosted by a small, tan bundle of ugly clothes as soon as he's out the door, the afternoon sunlight dying out into a cool dusk. Autumn is just around the bend.

"You're kind of small for a basketball player," the bundle- which is male, Patrick thinks, under all the eyeliner- says abruptly. Patrick blinks at him. "Oh, hey, I'm Pete."

"Um."

There's a moment where Patrick sort of wants to run back inside and grab Mixon and Gabe, but it passes when Pete pulls out a tattered notebook from the pocket of his obnoxiously gold hoodie.

"Editor of the paper. Our sports guy is out sick, so I thought I'd fill in." Pete yanks the cap of his pen off with his teeth- which are big and sort of horsey- and grins. "Mind if I ask a few questions?"

"Um," Patrick says again. "Sure?" Pete grins, big and goofy, and Patrick feels his cheeks heat up.

"Awesome." Pete presses the tip of his pen to the paper. "So, how's the team looking this year?"

"Um. Good?" Patrick winces. Maybe he really should get Gabe and Mixon. "Schecter's a really great coach."

"What can we expect at the game against the Bears?" Pete's got a serious face on, and Patrick's a little disturbed by his ability to switch from goofy to intense.

"I." Patrick scratches at the scraggly hair at the nape of his neck. "We're a good team," he says finally. "We know each other, you know?" Patrick winces again. Lame. Seriously, seriously lame. He's opening his mouth to try to fix it when the gym door swings open and spits Gabe and William out.

"Peter Wentz, unhand our young Patrick," Gabe proclaims dramatically, throwing a damp arm over Patrick's shoulders. Pete grins and scrawls down Patrick's name. "You're kind of rank dude," Gabe adds, sniffing the top of Patrick's head through his trucker cap.

"I hadn't noticed," Patrick replies dryly. "I didn't really plan on social hour."

"Social hour happens later." William snatches Pete's notebook and flips through. "You forgot to mention Patrick's fabulous ass. Although your detail to his mouth is commendable." Patrick feels himself go hot.

"I haven't gotten to see the backside yet," Pete says sadly, plucking his notebook from William's hand deftly. "You and Gabe want to put in anything for the paper?"

"I think we're actually pretty awesome," Gabe says, arm still around Patrick's shoulders comfortably. "Stump here is a tiny fighter, dude. Pure gold."

"You're a jackass," Patrick mutters under his breath. Gabe grins and smacks him low on the ass.

"Team spirit, Stump," he says cheerily.

"Oh, hey Pete, there's a party after the game." William leans against Pete like they've known each other forever. "You in?"

"Like you needed to ask." Pete's phone goes off, and he looks genuinely displeased at whoever is on the line. "Staff meeting. See you at the party, Rick?"

"Yes?" Patrick can't say he's sad to see Pete go. The awkward high school moment passes as soon as Pete's out of sight. Gabe and William share a significant look.

"We need to party," Gabe says.

"You always want to party," William counters.

"It's why you love me, Bilvy." Gabe hefts Patrick up- which both impresses and pisses Patrick off- and carries him in the direction of the parking lot.

"Do I get a say?" Patrick asks Gabe's ass, watching the pavement bounce by. Gabe's shoulder is digging into his gut. Peevishly, Patrick squirms and throws an arm around Gabe's neck and presses his armpit as close to Gabe's face as he dares. William laughs.

"You are foul, little man." Gabe doesn't let him drop though. "Also, Mix paid me ten bucks to get you out of the apartment so he can sex your buddy up."

"I'll pay you ten more if you never say anything like that again." Patrick reluctantly relaxes, bouncing with every long stride.

"No deal. You're absolutely adorable when you're sick to your stomach." Gabe pats his back consolingly before abruptly changing direction. Patrick has to scramble to cling on, kicking his legs.

"I can walk, you know?" He says, voice high as he slides further towards the pavement.

"Yes, but then we wouldn't be showing off that fantastic as, now would we?" William says, unlocking the hideous van doors.

"Your preoccupation with my ass terrifies me." Patrick huffs as he's forcibly seated in the middle row, his stomach feeling strange now without the pressure of Gabe's shoulder.

"You love it." William starts up the engine, winking at him through the rearview mirror. Patrick flushes.

\---

Thankfully, William had a friend who had a friend who fucked a chick that was on the chunky side, who left her clothes in the living room after. Maybe not so thankfully.

"Really?" Patrick asks, holding up the jeans. There are _sparkles_ on the _ass._ The shirt is made for a dude and has a faded Saves The Day logo, so that's fine enough, but- _"Really?"_

"You could go naked," Gabe says from the couch, already changed into jeans and a faded flannel shirt. William nods in agreement.

"You're both sucky friends," Patrick says after a pause.

"We'll grow on you," William assures him. "Now scoot. People will be here soon."

Patrick hops into the shower, surprised by the tidiness of the bathroom. He can't tell what's Gabe's and what's William's- they've apparently lived together so long that their things have just melded together. Patrick thinks of Andy and grins.

Even after scrubbing down his legs to get them as dry as possible, the jeans are ridiculous tight. Patrick yanks them up, wiggling and squirming, three seconds away from laying on the floor to get them up when the slip over the curve of his hips. He's freeballin'- his boxers are rank, and there's no way he'd wear Gabe or William's even if they somehow magically fit- and the seam up the seat of the jeans is riding the crack of his ass uncomfortably.

Mixon better be having the best sex of his life.

Gabe wolf-whistles as Patrick steps back into the living room, blushing and yanking on his hat. The shirt is a size smaller than he'd normally wear, hugging the tiny curve of his belly and sides. His damp hair curls against his jaw, itchy against his sideburns.

"Who's the hottie?" The girl next to Gabe asks. She's tall and thin, her dark hair in a high ponytail. Her dress is short around her solid thighs, dark and fitted. Patrick tries not to ogle her.

"Vicky-T, meet Patrick. He's the dude I was telling you about. Patrick, this is Vicky-T, cheer captain." Gabe leers and Vicky punches him in the shoulder hard enough to make a painful noise. Gabe laughs, but he reaches up to rub at his injured shoulder.

"Gabe's a dick." Vicky reaches over the back of the couch and Patrick shakes her hand. She smiles at him. "The rest of the squad'll be here soon. I'll introduce you."

Gabe says something soft into Vicky's ear and she smiles at him, leaning into his side. He curls his arm around her shoulders and pulls her in, softer than he had with Pete or William or Pete, and Patrick raises his eyebrows. Huh. He hadn't expected that.

The house fills quickly- it's big for two college kids, filled with rooms with no real purpose, but still small considering the number of people trying to fit inside of it. Patrick feels a little claustrophobic.

He's introduced to the cheerleaders in a flurry of pretty faces and girly laughs. There's Amanda- sleek and strange with drawn on eyebrows and a coy grin- and Lyn- full bodied and tattooed and quiet- and Jamia- tiny and spunky and bawdy- and Greta- young and blonde and sweet- and Patrick's stolen away from the party by all of them.

It's not like he can complain. Five gorgeous young ladies, an empty bedroom, and himself? Yes, please.

"Hi," Jamia says once they've shoved him into the uppermost bedroom. "You're new."

"I am," Patrick agrees.

"We like new," Greta says as she sits daintily on the floor. Her yellow sundress flutters around her thighs, and Patrick struggles for a moment to keep his eyes on her round, pretty face.

"Gabe never gives us anything nice to play with," Amanda laments. She's wearing short shorts and striped stockings that go all the way up, her sneakers scuffed.

"He's selfish," Vicky agrees.

"You _love_ him," the girls singsong together. Patrick thinks maybe he's in over his head.

"So Patrick," Vicky starts, "tell us all about yourself so we can begin the judgment."

"Um. I like basketball?"

The girls laugh, but not meanly. Lyn pats his shoulder, her pigtails bouncing as she sprawls out on the bed behind him. "We figured that one out, honey."

"We want the juicy stuff. Don't make us start truth or dare." Greta smiles sweetly at him. Evil lays under that pretty little dress. Patrick can sense it.

"Um."

"I think we broke him," Amanda says, prodding at Patrick's knees with the toes of her shoes. "Nice pants, by the way." Patrick flushes. He is _killing_ Gabe. The team can do fine without him.

"Harpies," William calls from the door. "Give him back." Amanda and Vicky stick out their tongues.

"We found him first," Jamia says. "Go find your own."

"Frank's here and he brought booze." William's got his smug face on. Patrick keeps his sigh of relief internal. He can't deal with this many people at once.

"We'll get him back," Amanda says warningly as the five of them head downstairs like a pack.

"Thank you, oh my god." Patrick slumps onto the bed, kicking his feet against the boxspring.

"They lure you in with their breasts and then eat you whole," William says sympathetically. "Their leader's stolen Gabe's heart. It's a terrible shame."

"Speaking of." Patrick sits up, propping himself on his elbows. "I thought you and Gabe..." He waves a hand. William blinks at him. "You know."

"Oh. Dude." William laughs, clutching at his side. "No. Fucking. No way." There are honest to god tears in his eyes. "Yeah, no. We're heterosexual life mates. Like Jay and Silent Bob. With less pot." He pauses for a moment. "During the season, anyway."

Patrick raises an eyebrow but goes with it. He follows William back downstairs, scrunching his face at the feel of the denim against his bare ass. Never again, seriously. He recognizes a few people from classes- Ryland from Advanced Bio, Nate and Alex from English 2030- and the rest of the team, barring Mixon, but the faces are numerous, and he's a head down kind of guy, so he feels a little out of his leauge.

This is alleviated by the glass of Rum and Coke Gabe pours him. It takes like burning, but Patrick's head goes a little dizzy with the first sip, and he feels himself go loose.

Travis is cozying it up with Amanda near the impressive sound system, acting as DJ. The playlist is kind of awesome, if the sea of people dancing in the living room says anything. Patrick bobs his head along, nursing his little red cup like it's a lifeline. Maybe he'll just sneak back into the kitchen and-

"Patrick!" There's a flying figure closing in on him, and Patrick's just buzzed enough to not freak out. He recognizes the ugly hoodie first and the big teeth second, but Pete's already got an arm around him before Patrick can decide if this is good or bad. "William was right. Fabulous ass."

"Don't break him, Wentz," Lyn says as she and Jamia dance by, doing something dirty enough to make Patrick go a little hot under the collar.

"You want to dance?" Pete asks. Not that it seems to matter what Patrick's decision is, because Pete's downing the last of Patrick's drink, grimacing against the taste, and dragging him through the crush of people to get to the center of the living room.

Dancing is not Patrick's strong suit. Dancing is not Patrick's any suit. He's got rhythm- he was a drummer for most of his life, it's like second nature- but he's never known what to do with his hands or his arms or his, well, anything, so he generally looks like he's only got six working brain cells. He doesn't really want to look like an idiot in front of all these new people.

Pete, it seems, has no qualms about this. He tucks up close to Patrick, invading his personal space totally, and fixes his hands firmly on the crest of Patrick's hips, bumping up against him in time to the hip-hop playing on the surround sound. Patrick flounders for a moment, anxious to be close.

"Move to the beat, Rick," Pete shouts, pulling on Patrick's hips.

Reluctantly, Patrick sticks his hands on Pete's shoulders, shuffling in the small bit of space he's been given. This is totally the chick side, which, what the fuck, but he actually finds it kind of fun when Pete sends them into a lopsided spin around Gabe and Vicky.

"So, what's your major?" Pete shouts, leaning in to be heard over the music. His cheek is smooth and warm, pressed flush against Patrick's for a brief moment.

"Marine Biology," Patrick yells back. Pete gives him a stout nod. "You?" Patrick winces, ignoring Pete's loud, harsh laugh. "Journalism, right?"

"Indeed, Pattycakes." Pete slides his left hand lower, stealing a quick squeeze as the song switches over.

"Dude, seriously." Patrick jerks back, but Pete just laughs again, leading Patrick's hips in the new rhythm. Yeah, sure, the dude's hot, but what the fuck?

"You're like a fucking tightrope, man," Pete says, pressing closer. "Loosen up."

Patrick will show him mother fucking loosen up. He takes a quick look over at Amanda- who has climbed up onto the dining room table and started giving a one girl show- and nods to himself. He can totally do that.

Okay, so maybe he's not as slick as she is, but he curls a hand in Pete's hoodie, the other sliding down to cup Pete's hip. Pete grins and mouths something like fuck yeah at him as Patrick starts a slow roll of his hips in time to the beat.

The buzz is long gone, and Patrick feels like his skin's on fire he's blushing so hard, but Pete's laughing with, not at, him, and there's wolf whistles and shouts of his and Pete's names, and Patrick sort of feels like hot shit. He's totally got this.

"You're hogging the hotass," Amanda pouts at Pete when the song ends, slipping her small hand under his. "You have to share your toys."

Patrick doesn't want to be shared. He's quite happy where he is, thanks. Don't make him go. Alas, Pete just gives that charming smile and gropes Patrick again.

"See you at the game," he calls as Amanda leads Patrick away.

"Let's see those moves, hot stuff," Amanda says as she maneuvers him between Lyn and herself. Okay, so Patrick's not so bummed to be moved after all.

It's a little weird trying to dance with two people, but Lyn and Amanda just wrap around him, Amanda's solid lines at his front, Lyn's soft curves at his back. He pulls the same tricks, curling an arm around Amanda's slim waist, pulling her close, letting his other arm circle Lyn's back.

It's weird, but it's also hot in ways he's never even had the balls to dream about. He hears a familiar voice- Hurley- shouting way to go, Stump and Patrick grins again. He's down with playing college ball if this is where it gets him.

\---

Living with Andy is the best thing to ever happen to him.

Andy's a quiet sort of guy, internal but open to listening if someone else needs it. He doesn't ask about the scars on the backs of Patrick's knuckles, doesn't ask about the nightmares Patrick used to have, doesn't say _why are you here? or what happened?_ He tells Patrick if he wants to talk, he will.

Patrick can hear him moving through the house, humming tunelessly as he brews tea in the kitchen, his fingers tapping steady beats on the counter, the wall, his thigh. Patrick shuffles down into his covers and smiles at the sounds of home, the sounds he's been waking up to for over a year now.

What isn't familiar or homey is the soft snoring filtering through the wall that connects his bedroom to Hurley's.

A quick look at the alarm clock in his night stand tells Patrick that its too late to bang on the wall, but too early to actually get up. He settles on a happy medium, tossing his clock at the wall and pulling his blankets over his head.

There's a knock at his door a few moments later. Patrick wrinkles his nose. He's still tired, but there's no way he's getting back to sleep now.

"There's pancakes in the kitchen," Andy says through the door before shuffling back into his room. The kitchen it is then.

The apartment is small in a cozy way, two bedrooms, one bathroom, and a wide open area that serves as both kitchen and living room. There's an old couch up against the wall across from the front door, fenced in by two beanbag chairs that are possibly older than Patrick, and a coffee table that looks like it's seen a war. The walls are soft lavenders and greys, not painted with two young dudes in mind, but nice in a way Patrick will never, under pain of death, admit out loud.

The kitchen smells like pancakes- which are piled up on a plate in the microwave- and the jasmine of Andy's morning tea. Patrick settles down at the little table on his favorite mismatched stool with the plate and a cup of tea- coffee's better, but the tea's already there- and thumbs through the paper that's laid out.

It isn't until he's reading through the sports section that he realizes that it's the school paper. It's good, professional, and Patrick is suitably impressed. He scans over the swimming team's scores, the play-by-play of the latest track meet, and the interview with the Dean about sports funding.

His own name catches his attention, and Patrick pauses, fork in his mouth as he reads Pete's article.

_Standing at five five, give or take an inch, Patrick Stump is the Cougar's newest member, joining McCoy, Saporta, Beckett, Mixon, Smith, and Bryar on the oft written off team. He took a few moments with your kindly editor to tell us about this year's team._

_"We're a good team," Stump says, still flushed and sweating from practice. "Schecter's a great coach and we know each other, you know?"_

_Saporta later joined in, boasting about their newest member. "He's a little fighter. Gonna take us straight to the top."_

_The Cougars play their first game of the season Friday night here in our very own auditorium at eight PM. Tickets on sale at student services._

Patrick folds the paper neatly and finishes his pancakes, trying not to feel smug. It's not like he's done anything to merit attention, and only a handful of bored kids will read the article, but, still. That's _his_ name and _his_ team. It feels kind of like a victory.

"Morning sunshine." Mixon beams at him, his boxers riding low on his hips as he makes his way to the tea. Patrick feels a moment of regret because, Jesus, he could have hit that, but then Andy's strolling in, hair messier than usual, mouth soft at the edges, and Patrick can't really begrudge him anything.

"Is this a no pants establishment?" Patrick asks as Andy goes by.

"It is and you, Stump man, are breaking the law." Mixon waggles his eyebrows and leers. "Off with your pants."

"No thanks," Andy and Patrick say together. Mixon laughs and somehow curls himself into Andy's side, hunkered down against the counter.

It's not uncomfortable, per se, but Patrick feels like maybe he should be somewhere that's not here for the moment being. He catches the slide of Mixon's hand across Andy's arm, the shy smile under the cover of Andy's hair, and figures that the library is probably a better place to study anyway.

\---

Marine Biology is intensely fascinating. It's filled with things too small to ever be seen by the naked- or modified- eye, things bigger than houses, and things that can make themselves invisible at will. There are whales and sea horses and fishes with headlights and creatures that can die if they ever rise above the bottom of the sea.

Patrick likes figuring it out, loves learning new facts about the fish that live under sea urchins and the fish that have their brains exposed like a living x-ray. There are just so many living things working together to make up a universe entirely separate from land that it makes him realize exactly how small he is in the scheme of things.

He's reading about sea cucumbers- it's not as fascinating as others but, still, weird- tucked up in the big, coushy chair that leans a little to the right, headphones playing a soft background of BB King, shoes off, hat tipped back as he reads the passage about self-reproduction.

"Hey."

Patrick looks up, a little startled. It's a Wednesday afternoon, and while the library isn't exactly deserted, it's also not really the life of the party either. He's surprised to see Pete standing in front of him, small in his bright hoodie, hair standing at ridiculous angles, smile wide even though there's deep circles under his eyes.

"Hey," Patrick says back after a pause that's probably been too long. Pete doesn't seem offended. He grabs a book that's nestled in the shelf above Patrick's head, a tan flash of skin level with Patrick's eye line.

"Mind if I sit?" Pete asks, already dropping himself onto the floor. Patrick shrugs. Not that it matters; Pete's already reading, legs sprawled open, leaning back to rest his head on the foot of the chair.

They don't talk, but it's nice having someone there. Patrick goes back to his textbook, examining the diagram of the sea cucumber's insides.

Time passes differently when he's learning; he's not there, instead in the world under the sea, watching from the outside in. He doesn't think any time's gone by at all until his stomach rumbling makes Pete jerk.

"Sorry," Patrick mumbles sheepishly, bookmarking his page with one of the pro-vegan bookmarks Andy had given him. Pete grins and rubs at the back of his neck, wincing when he presses his fingers in. He looks tired.

"Nah, it's cool." Pete yawns, and his back cracks when he stands. "Need more coffee. Want to grab something from the diner?" If he were optimistic, Patrick would think Pete looks hopeful. As it is, Patrick's a little on the self-depreciating side and thinks that Pete's probably got nothing better to do.

"Yeah, sure. Let me just-" He motions to his things strewn out on the floor and Pete nods, filing the book in his hands back away.

The diner is a block away from campus, tucked into a corner like something out of a movie. The walls are painted soft beige and tan, artwork from small children and art majors pinned up like the entire place is one giant refrigerator door. An assortment of comfortable, mismatched chairs fill the space in small clusters, a few tables here and there between.

It has vegetarian dishes and coffee and smoothies and some of the best tofurkey sandwiches Patrick's ever had the honor of eating. The owners- an older couple with matching silver bands and smile lines- work more days than not, their kids filling in when they don't, and they know most customers by name and order.

Jack, the elderly man, smiles when Pete walks up to the counter, his dark eyes going narrow as he squints. He's kindly. Reminds Patrick of a grandfather he barely has memories of.

"Mister Wentz," Jack says in greeting, leaning over the counter to wrap Pete in a hug. Pete's smaller by six inches at least, but Jack's thin and brittle, and Pete seems giant in comparison.

"Jack. This is Patrick." Pete pulls back, clapping a hand on Patrick's back like they've known each other for more than three days.

"I believe we've met." Jack still sticks out his brittle hand, and Patrick takes it as if he's handling a delicate bird.

"How's Tammy?" Pete asks. Tammy is the other owner, smaller even than Jack with a smile that makes Patrick want to curl up in her lap like an infant.

"She's fine. Playing with the grandkids today." Jack makes two mugs of coffee and a tofurkey sandwich on rye and nudges the plate toward Patrick. "Eat up, son. You're looking thin."

"Thanks," Patrick mumbles, trying not to go red around the ears. He looked in the mirror this morning, thanks. There's no thin about him unless you count his hair. He tugs at his cap anxiously.

Pete wraps up his conversation with Jack, hugging him again before he leads Patrick to a back corner and two of the fluffiest excuses for armchairs he's ever seen.

"Do you know Jack, like, well?" Patrick asks around a bite of his sandwich. Delicious. Like always. Pete shrugs.

"He's good people," he says, like it's answer enough. Patrick guesses it is. In the dim light, Pete's face looks washed out and thin. He grins, but it's weak. "So, nice moves the other night."

"For the love of all things holy, stop that train of thought there." Patrick tucks his legs up and tries to be dignified about shoving the last bite of bread into his mouth. At least it'll keep him quiet. Pete laughs.

"You seem like a pretty cool dude." He sips at his coffee, face oddly serious. Patrick squirms. He feels like he's taking a test he didn't know to study for.

"Thanks," he says, simply because there's no other answer.

\---

"Stump," Gabe calls across the gym, his voice echoing as he jogs towards him. Patrick winces.

"Yo," he says as Gabe slides to a halt in front of him and Andy. The gym's mostly empty now, but in six hours it's going to be full of people watching them play. The first game of the season; the decider of how the four months are going to go. Patrick's not shaking in his red and gold shorts yet, but he's still got time.

"Schecter's birthing in the locker room," Gabe says, throwing a look over his shoulder. Brian's got freaky bat ears that pick up on shit like that. "Best to stay out here and flirt with the cheerleaders with me." He leers over at the other side of the gym.

Vicky's squad is present and accounted for, stretching and chattering away. Their skirts are short and pleated, and their tops are cut like halters, tying in tight knots behind their necks. Lyn and Greta are wearing pigtails, bouncy and tied with red ribbons, and Amanda and Vicky have ponytails tied high at the tops of their heads. Jamia's dark hair is messy and loose around her face, too short to tie back.

Basketball is Patrick's favorite sport ever.

"We can feel you watching, creeper," Jamia hollers, leaning down over her stretched leg, adjusting her striped stockings.

"You love it when I watch, peaches," Gabe shouts back.

"Saporta," Brian yells from the locker room, "stop harassing the cheerleaders and get your ass in here." 

Gabe blows Vicky a kiss, obnoxious and somehow charming. She rolls her eyes, but Patrick catches her smiling as Gabe trots back to the locker room.

"Are you really going to hang out until the game starts?" Patrick asks Andy. Moral support is awesome- he needs it- but that's kind of a long wait. Andy shrugs and pulls out a new copy of _The Virgin Suicides.  
_   
"I'm covered," he says. Patrick narrows his eyes.

"You're going to try to fuck Mix in the bathroom, aren't you?"

"Under the bleachers," Andy corrects. He laughs at Patrick's crinkled face and begins to make his way up the bleachers. He's a guest of the team; he can sit wherever he wants. "Good luck, dude. Seriously."

"Thanks," Patrick says. He takes a deep breath and heads towards the locker room.

Brian isn't screaming, per se, his voice is just raised, the pulse of his temple nearly visible as Patrick slides his way in between Bob and Spencer. He's last in, but it doesn't look like he's missed much.

He tunes out the speech, watching the faces of his teammates. They've played together before, know the rounds already. It seems unfair that they have that advantage when Patrick's so nervous, fighting to keep the churn of nerves out of his stomach.

Somehow, Bob convinces Brian that what they all need is food and a good jog, and Brian relents, running his hands through his messy hair. He's new, too, and Patrick feels like he has that at least. He's not entirely alone.

Getting pizza is maybe not the best plan. There's the whole thing with carbs and before-game nutrition and blah fucking blah, but there's also Gabe's strict veganism and William's insistence that, no, really, Pizza Hut is the devil, and Spencer's glare at the suggestion that mushrooms belong on the ground, not in food.

They get five large mashups, and end up sharing with Vicky's squad. Jamia's a little thing, but she still manages to put half a pizza down by herself. Patrick's too nervous to do much else than pick at the peperoni on his slice, listening to the conversation around him.

"It's just a game, Stump," Bob says next to him, wiping his mouth with a paper towel. "You win some of them, you lose some of them. It's just about having fun, right?"

"Yeah," Patrick replies, and some of the butterflies dissipate.

The girls decline going on a run in favor of running through their halftime routine, and Mixon goes noticeably absent once they're outside. The air is crisp and cool with September chill, maybe too cold to be wearing their game shorts, but it helps Patrick shake off some of his anxiety. Just a game like any other.

Gabe leads the pack, jogging backwards. He's a senior, ready to graduate with a pre-law degree, and he knows the place like the back of his hand. Patrick wouldn't be surprised if he ran the campus at night, blowing off steam or trying to relax.

When they return to the gym, a few of the seats have been filled, students out of class early. Some of them are watching Vicky run her squad, others are doing homework. It's like high school again, only six times as large.

Mixon joins them in the locker room, face smug as he plops himself down onto Patrick's lap. There's a blooming red-purple bruise on this throat. Patrick does his best to ignore it. Andy's like his brother; he doesn't need to know this shit.

A normal team would be discussing plays and strengths and weaknesses of the opponent. As Patrick's come quickly to discover, they aren't a normal team, and they spend the last two hours before the game talking about the after party and the cool high school band that's going to be playing, and the chances of Travis scoring with Amanda. It's relaxing in an entirely non practical way.

"If you're all done braiding each other's hair, can we get to stretches?" Brian crosses his arms over his chest, ignoring Gabe and William's pathetic pleas for _five more minutes, seriously, shit was getting good._

All the nerves that had been washed away slam back into Patrick as he sinks to the floor to stretch his legs. His sneaker is grimy under his fingertips, and he can hear the crowd milling around outside over the music playing, and he is too fucking small to be playing basketball, what the fuck was he thinking?

"Dude, if you're gonna puke, try not to do it on my shoes," Spencer says next to him, raising his eyebrows. Patrick snorts and Spencer gives him a little grin.

"Show time guys." Brian stands at the door a little awkwardly, looking like he's full of doubt, too. "You guys'll do great." From Brian, that's like a grade A motivational speech. The PA system crackles and then there's a voice coming through loud and clear.

"I'm Joe Trohman, your hometown announcer. Welcome to Northeastern, home of the Eagles. Today's game is brought to you by Armstrong Mechanics and my tuition. In the away corner, all the way from Northern State, the Huskies."

The appropriate number of cheers and boos filter through as the other team runs onto the court. Patrick's palms are sweating.

"And from the home front, the Northeastern Eagles!"

The cheers rise in volume as Brian shoved the door open for them.

It's a rush of sound and colors as Patrick runs after them, sneakers squeaking on the polished floor, head gone dizzy. This is it. This is what they've been training for. The preliminary line-ups flash by him as he follows the others, unable to concentrate. Then, he's on the court, facing off against a tall guy in red and black, Travis to his left as the center. The Huskies' center snorts.

"You've got to be kidding," he says, leering at Patrick. Patrick's hackles rise. Fuck that noise. On the other side of Travis, Gabe laughs.

"Dude, you have no idea what's coming," he says as the referee steps up with the ball. "Good luck, dudes."

Then the whistle blows and the ball is in the air.

Travis makes the grab, knocking the ball to Gabe. There's a quick blur of red and purple, and then the ball is flying towards William, who's dancing around a Husky the size of Bob. Patrick's not really focused on them, though, more focused on _get to the net, get the free throw line, get yourself there and they'll get the ball to you._

It's not hard; not really. The guy that's supposed to be guarding him is more focused on William, who is dribbling at a steady pace towards the away side of the court. Stupid, Patrick thinks, but he's not going to look a gift-horse in the mouth.

The ball hits Gabe, over to the Spencer, back to William. It's like a game of keep away, all hands in the air and thin, strong hips jutting out to catch people off guard. Patrick makes it to the free throw line and turns, checking the open space around him. His defender is nearly a foot away, watching the others move closer.

Travis gets the ball at just past half-court and he lugs it at Patrick. For a moment, time slows down. Patrick's head is stuck in _what if I drop it, what if I miss, what if I let them down_ and then time goes back to its scheduled programming, and there's a hunk of air and rubber in his hands, and he shoots, the ball rolling off his fingertips as smoothly as it ever has.

Too late, the Husky defending him runs over, reaching up, but the ball is already above the rim, rolling over it to sink in. The score alarm goes off and the home crowd cheers. Patrick nearly topples over when Gabe gives him a running hug.

"Fucking lucky break," the Husky- Chipper, according to his jersey- spits as he jogs by, picking up the ball.

Patrick shifts next to Spencer. If shooting is his power, defense is his kryptonite. The referee blows the whistle and Chipper passes to the teammate that's been guarding Gabe. They're quick- all long legs and bursts of speed- but Gabe's quicker, and Spencer is a defensive beast, knocking the ball from the guy's hands as turning on his heels, passing blindly to Travis.

It's part luck, part height advantage that lets Travis snag the ball, doing a dodging run back to the away side basket. Chipper shoulders- more like tries, and ends up elbowing him instead- Patrick to the side as Travis gets closer.

Patrick makes for the left and keeps going- it's a trick that usually works only once a game, and he might as well pull it out early- and catches the ball when Travis tosses it to him.

Buzzer off, two more points for the Eagles.

"Short shit taking you down?" One of Chipper's teammates sneers at him. Patrick feels vaguely offended for him. But only vaguely.

"Fuck off, Anderson," Chipper grits out, jerking the ball from the referee's hands.

On the sidelines, the cheerleaders are glaring each other down. The Husky's squad is made up of tall, thin girls with blonde hair and red ribbons. Their skirts are somehow shorter than Vicky's squad's. Thank heavens for recreational sports.

Chipper tosses off to Anderson, who passes to the Bob-sized guy close to half-court. William's guarding him, but Hulking Giant does a quick step and catches the pass, hauling himself down court.

William and Spencer scramble to catch up, but Jolly Green manages to make it to the net, lifting his bulk into the air for a jump shot. It's shoddy, a messy release if Patrick's ever seen one, but it does its job. Buzzer goes off, two points to the Huskies.

There's still ten minutes in the half, and they're up by two. Brian calls for a time-out.

They gather up around him, panting and sweating. He gives them a quick nod a silent good job, guys, and substitutes Mixon for Travis.

"We're killing a lot of time," Brian says. "Speed it up. Don't let them catch you."

"I think a _no shit_ is in order here," Gabe says. Brian rolls his eyes and sends them back.

Mixon takes the ball from the referee and stands side court. The Huskies crowd in, swarming like ants. Patrick keeps up behind Chipper. He's not a great guard, but Chipper's still underestimating him. Fine. If he wants to play that game, Patrick can play that fucking game.

Mixon aims for Spencer but passes to Patrick. Chipper makes a quick turn to grab, but Patrick bounces the ball to Gabe, ducking Chipper's long arm as he jogs down court. Brian's yelling on the sidelines, but Patrick's not paying attention, too focused on watching the ball go from Gabe to William to Gabe again.

Anderson somehow manages to slip between them and snatches the ball midpass, sneakers squealing as he scrambles to turn. Patrick's legs are starting to feel the strain. Five minutes left in the half. Still up by two.

Spencer cuts Anderson off but ends up flat on his back, plowed over. On the PA, Joe hisses, his commentary lost under the booing of the home crowd. Anderson shoots and scores. Four to four, tied with four minutes to go.

"You okay, man?" Patrick asks as he extends a hand to Spencer, helping to haul him to his feet.

"Yeah." Spencer rolls his shoulders, a nasty red stripe of a burn starting up under his jersey. He shoots a dark look at Anderson as they jog to the home end of the court again where Gabe is standing, waiting for the referee to blow the whistle.

They take Brian's advice.

There's no fucking around. Gabe passes to Mixon, who speeds himself down court, his cheery face gone dark with determenation. He shoots at the three point line. It heads up, rounding the rim, before falling back to the floor.

William and Chipper both make grabs for the rebound. William makes it a half-second before Chipper, fingertips batting the ball weakly back to Mixon. Mixon shoots again, teeth grit. The ball sinks in this time around. Four to seven. One minute in the half.

Anderson passes the ball in to the big guy- Jerson, according to his jersey and Joe's voice on the speaker. Mixon makes enough nusiance of himself to keep Jerson at half-court, blocking his openings, running the clock. The buzzer goes off as Jerson breaks past.

Patrick flops onto the floor in front of the bench, the cold feeling like heaven on his overheated skin. His calves feel tight, and he should probably stretch them again before going back out to play.

The crowd mills about, waiting for the cheerleaders to start the show. Patrick squeals in shock as ice cold water splashes onto his face. Above him, Gabe grins.

"Doing good, Stump," he says, folding down next to him. Patrick mumbles a thanks as the music to the cheerleader's routine starts up. Patrick watches from the floor.

The song is a mix-up of synth-pop that sounds familiar. The girls sway their hips to the beat, blowing kisses to the whistling boys in the front row as their cues start up. They


	9. Lake Effect Kid, Pete/Patrick, PG-13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Retelling of the beginnings of Fall Out Boy.

It’s sort of like electric when they meet. Joe’s chattering away in Pete’s ear about an Anthrax track, voice thick with too much sleep, cracking and lisping on the soft sounds. The air is hot and a little humid, creeping up under Pete’s polo to scratch against his chest, sink deep into his skin. The city smells like the end of summer, sweet and sour and bitter in a way that never changes.

They’re standing on this kid’s front porch, swaying on their old sneakers, at something like ten in the morning. Joe’s still got grit from sleep in the corners of his too-wide eyes, and Pete never went to sleep. In face, he’s still wearing the same jeans from Jill- Jane, Janet?- that he’d picked up from the floor last night. Pete’s about to give up and head home. He knocks again at Joe’s pathetic look and sighs.

“Shit. Hold on-“

Then, there’s a crash, a muttered _fuck, fuck, ow_ , and then the door flies open. There’s this skinny, awkward kid standing there, all legs and arms and ridiculously large mouth, face red, pale knees sticking out from under black shorts. His hair is close cropped to his head, and he’s wearing the ugliest sweater Pete’s ever seen. He frowns until he sees Joe, who waves and grins like an idiot. 

“Dude, calling would have been an awesome idea,” the kid says. His voice is young- like Joe’s- and cracks at the end. Pete winces because he remembers that stage, remembers his own voice slipping and falling and turning from high-pitched wail to rock-bottom gavel in quick turns. “Shit. Dude, are you-“

“Pete, yeah.” Pete laughs as the kid straightens up, like he’s on display. Pete supposes he is. “Dude, that sweater?”

“Laundry day. Um. I’m. Yeah, no. I’m Patrick.” The kid sticks his hand out awkwardly. He’s just a little thing, really, swallowed up by the doorframe. Pete takes his hand, mostly to be polite, and it’s warm and a little damp and fits nicely into Pete’s. Pete feels a little like he’s been punched in the gut and pulls away.

“Dude, are those brownies?” Joe asks, peeking past Patrick into the kitchen.

“Wha- Yeah, yeah. Come in, I guess.” Patrick steps back, rubbing at the back of his neck with one pale hand. His cheeks have faded to a dull pink, and it looks good on him. Natural.

Joe, who is like a damned puppy, rushes in and snatches a brownie from the tin. It’s hot, steam still rising from the edges, and he has to toss it from hand to hand, face scrunched up hilariously. Pete’s got one eye on Joe- and, seriously, how does he ever take him anywhere?- and the other on Patrick, who looks a little unsettled. Pete knocks their hips together and Patrick startles hard enough to smash his other hip into the table. Pete laughs.

“So, you want to show us your mad drumming skills?” Joe asks around a mouthful of gooey brownie. Some of it’s gotten stuck on the edge of his mouth, dark against his lower lip, and Pete wants to roll his eyes. He’s hanging out with _babies_.

Patrick leads them downstairs to the basement. It’s nice. Messy, but cozy in a way Pete isn’t used to. There’s egg cartons glued to the walls and ceiling, the same sort of soundproofing Pete’s used in old practice spaces, and a line of guitar cases and a drumkit set up in one corner. There’s a yellow couch, sad and soft and older than all of them together, in one corner, and three beanbag chairs of varying ugly. The carpet was whit once, but its been lost to baby stains and bad beer and restless socks in the middle of the night. 

Pete throws himself onto the couch, the squeal of the old springs under him obnoxious enough to make him kick his legs until it does it again. Joe flops down on his thighs, all bony ass and smelly t-shirt. Pete’s getting ready to shove him off when Patrick clicks a drumstick against the rim of his snare.

“Any requests?” He asks, shifting nervously on the stool. Joe raises his hand. Pete smacks it down.

“Play anything, man,” he says. So, Patrick plays. 

It’s sort of awkward; stilted, stiff arm movements and tense back and locked elbows. Pete can pick out the rhythms of some Blink 182 song or other, the rhythm familiar in his wrists and ankles. After the first few measures, Patrick sinks down into his stool, lets his body loosen, and the rhythm becomes cleaner, better. Good.

Joe taps his heels against the floor in time as Patrick launches into a second song, head nodding along. When Pete closes his eyes, he can feel the bassline under his fingers, the melody stuck in his chest and stomach. The playing stops and the room falls silent, Patrick’s breathing loud in the empty space that’s left.

Patrick’s face is red up to his hair, sweat at his temples and under his lower lip. He’s still tapping the drumsticks against his thighs, eyes flick from Pete to Joe to the snare. Pete knocks Joe to the floor unceremoniously and spreads his arms. The stretch and pull of the muscles in his back make him wince behind his grin. 

“Welcome to the club, Rick,” he says thickly, leaning over the kit to pat the kid’s cheek. The skin is damp and hot and baby soft under the scratch of Pete’s fingertips, baby fine hair all along his jaw. Joe launches himself off the floor to tackle Patrick off the stool, laughing as they go down. Patrick kicks his arms and legs, eyes ridiculously wide.

“I told you he’d like you, dude,” Joe says as he rolls off of Patrick onto the floor. Patrick grins and elbows him. Joe elbows back.

“I’d like you more if you had food.” Pete pops his shoulders, eyeing one of the egg cartons skeptically. It’s hanging on by its edges, ready to crash to the ground. Patrick brings himself up to his elbows, hands flat on the carpet. 

“I can, uh, make pancakes?” He flinches when Joe pats his stomach.

“You are an awesome little dude,” Joe says sagely.

They amble back up the stairs and Pete throws himself onto the couch in the living room, groping for the remote. The sound of a stereo starting up floats in from the kitchen, along with the soft sounds of Joe’s voice and the clanging of pans being thrown together. Pete sinks into the couch back, smooth and tired and ready to take a nap.

He’s floating on the edge of sleep, running for it desperately, when a voice slips into his almost-dream, pulling him away from it. There’s no words, just the easy rise and fall of sounds sliding under familiar guitar riffs. Pete shakes himself awake, following it to the kitchen where Patrick- who has, thankfully, taken that god-awful sweater off- is flipping pancakes onto flower-printed paper plates.

“You,” Pete says, pointing a finger at him. Patrick startles, nearly dropping the plate. The humming cuts off. “You are making a noise that I like.”

“Uh. What?”

“Sing,” Pete commands. He settles his fists on his hips and waits. Patrick blinks at him.

“No?” Patrick sets the plate of pancakes onto the table. Joe looks between them, eyebrows raised.

“Sing.”

“Pancake?”

“They[‘re delicious,” Joe adds around a forkful. Pete shakes his head. _Babies_.

“Patrick, Pat-“

“Don’t call me Pat-“

“Pattycakes, sing me a song.” Pete leans into him, using what height advantage he has over him, and gives him his best shit-eating grin. He’s pulling out as much influence as he can, hoping that the kid’s wide eyes mean admiration instead of fear.

Patrick starts singing the song he had been humming, mumbling through the lyrics. He’s bent back away from Pete, voice wobbling. Pete takes a step back, and Patrick drops his gaze to the floor. He gets louder, makes the words clearer. His voice cracks here and there, but the rest of it is clean and rich, and Pete feels it sinking into him, settling into his chest like it belongs. Patrick tapers off, scratching at his bare arm awkwardly.

“Um. I don’t really, sing, y’know,” he mumbles. “I’m more of a drummer.”

“Blasphemy, Rick.” Pete slings an arm over the kid’s shoulders and yanks him close. “You will sing and make pancakes and be generally awesome.” Patrick’s hot all along Pete’s side, hands fluttering nervously, eyes still wide. “Trohman, stop stuffing your face, dude. We’re having a moment.”

“Me and these delicious breakfast foods are having a moment.” Joe stuffs another forkful into his mouth before Pete yanks him up. He smells like syrup, and Patrick’s cheek is pressed flush to Pete’s chest, and Pete’s sort of giddy because of all of it.

Pete eventually settles down to munch on his plat of pancakes, oddly satisfied with himself. The pancake is a little chewy, but Pete can’t bring himself to mention it, too caught up in watching Patrick’s face going through the motions of terrified to happy to awkward on repeat.

“So,” Joe says finally, patting his stomach through his baggy shirt. “I guess we still need to find a drummer.” He wrinkles his nose, all of it- which floors Pete in a horribly mean way every time- and leans back into his chair. “Internet?” Pete loves him sometimes.

“Internet,” he agrees. “Tomorrow. Today, we celebrate our singer.”

“And how, exactly, are you planning on doing that?” Patrick asks, eyes narrowed suspiciously. The kid’s quick, Pete’ll give him that. Too bad it means next to nothing.

“Party at Hey Chris’”,” he answers. “Tonight. Eight. Joe’ll pick you up.” Pete yawns into his next bite. The night’s finally caught up to him. Patrick’s fidgeting at the table, his pancakes untouched. Pete rolls his eyes. “Chill, kid. I don’t bite.”

“Bullshit.” Joe rolls up the left leg of his jeans, shoving his skinny calf at Patrick. “See that scar? There? Yeah, no, that’s a Wentz original.”

“At half cost,” Pete says, waving a hand dismissively. He leers at Patrick, lips pulled back over his too large teeth. “Want a matching one?” Patrick blanches. Before Pete can make a grab motion at the kid’s thigh, though, his phone gives a loud screech. “Shit.” He already knows who it is, but he checks the screen anyway. “Hey, dude, where’s your bathroom?”

“Down the hall, first door on the – hey!”

Pete pulls the door shut, muffling the sounds of Patrick’s protests. He flips his phone open, tucking it between his shoulder and ear as he flops down onto what he assumes his Patrick’s bed. The mattress bounces twice before Morgan’s shrill voice cuts through.

“Where were you last night?” She asks. Pete flicks a band medal that’s hanging above the bed, watching it spin. “We had plans, asshole. Did you _forget_?” 

“Morgan, hey. Hey, I got caught up with a paper,” Pete says smoothly. He can almost see the tension moving from her tiny shoulders. It’s a dirty trick, but he’s got this arsenal for a reason. 

“You should have called,” Morgan says, softer. Pete crosses his ankles and sighs. Another disaster avoided. He zones out as she talks, laying his head on Patrick’s flat pillow. 

The room’s decently sized, messy corners and obvious walkways through piles of clutter. There’s piles of clothes- thankfully normal, from what Pete can see- on top of an endless army of shoes. A trio of band camp medals hand over the bed, twirling slowly with the ceiling fan. VHS tapes lay piled on the solo dresser, half boxed, half unlabeled, buried under stacks and stacks and stacks of CDs. There’s a neater pile of vinyls on a bookshelf, pressed up tight against the far wall, an ancient record player balanced precariously on the top shelf. There’s posters for The Clash and Prince and Green Day and Ray Charles haphazardly pasted to the wall. It’s got character. Pete likes character.

“Baby, hey- hey, Morgan, listen.” Pete taps a rhythm on his hipbone, waits for Morgan’s voice to stop long enough to get a word in. “There’s a party at Chris’ tonight. Want to go?”

“Does it really matter?” She asks. Pete can see her thin fingers in her dark hair, her full lips turned down at the corners. He should feel guilty, but he doesn’t. Not really. Hasn’t felt guilty for a long time. He’s quiet long enough for Morgan to take it as an answer, and he sigh filters through his phone as static. “What time?”

“Eight,” Pete answers. “I gotta go. I’m at some kid’s house.” Said kid has been pretty decent so far about letting Pete take over his room. Pete doesn’t want to push his luck too far. “Bye. Love you.”

“You’re an ass, Wentz,” Morgan says, breath huffy. “I love you, too.”

When the phone goes quiet, Pete lets his arm drop to the mattress. He’s bone tired, filled with too much caffeine to sleep, not enough to stay up much longer. Slowly, he rolls off the bed, dragging the Star Wars sheets with him across the floor. Patrick’s voice is steady over Joe’s down the hall, excited and young and sweet in a way Pete’s not used to anymore. He follows the sound of it to the living room.

The kids are sprawled out on the couch, all arms and legs, heads mostly-kind-of-sort-of facing the TV, where an old John Cusack movie is playing. Pete hops over the back of the couch to land on their thighs, head bouncing off Patrick’s chest, sneakers just missing Joe’s shoulders. Patrick’s arms and legs spaz, hips bucking in a weak attempt to get Pete off. Joe is still, resigned to his fate. Pete has taught him well.

“Don’t play coy, Rick,” Pete says, grabbing the kid’s bony shoulders, arms bent back awkwardly. “You’re loving it.”

“Dude, Pete, tone it down a little,” Joe hisses, giving him a look. It makes Pete bristle, shoulders tightening under the cotton of his shirt.

“Suck it, Trohman,” he says a little meanly. It makes Joe’s face fall, and Pete instantly feels like shit. “Dude, I’m ten seconds from passing out. Take me home?” He already knows Joe won’t say no- that’s why the kid’s driving on his permit six days a week, still wide-eyed and complacent. Hurley calls him Number One Fan. Pete calls him starstruck and rides the wave. He’s a firm believer in taking what comes his way and running with it.

“Yeah, sure. Whatever.” Joe squirms out from under Pete’s legs, too long shorts falling down on his skinny hips. “You’re coming tonight, right?”

“Of course he is,” Pete answers, reaching back to pat Patrick’s warm cheek. He tilts his head back, looking at the kid’s face upside down. “See you there, Pattycakes.”

\---

When Pete gets home, he pops three Ativan and crawls into bed, shoes and all. He’s got the bitter of the pills biting at his tongue, dry and coarse no matter how much water he swallows down with them. The white stucco ceiling spins a bit, his eyes too tired to focus it into place. Distantly, he can hear his sister singing off key in the bathroom, his brother’s voice light and cracking on the house phone with some pre-teen girl, his mother crashing pans together in the kitchen two stories below. 

It’s all so typical. So routine. Another day at the Wentz household. Pete’s so sick of it, so desperate for something to break and change. He’s having a problem dealing with the brittle smiles that match his own, the fake hugs and kisses and late night phone calls he hears through the vents. They forget that he doesn’t sleep, forget that he does come home every once in a while to get away from the constant nag of girlfriends and scene kids and overdue homework. They forget him, and he’s okay enough with it. He is. He just wishes they censored their conversations, wishes they thought about Andrew and Hilary as much as they think about themselves. 

Pete’s in that spot just inside of sleep, where his muscles are loose and confused, his brain fuzzy enough to dull his auto-pilot thoughts into something manageable. The inside of his shirt is soft and warm against his arms, but his stomach is bare and freezing, and he can’t quite make his arms work to pull the covers over top of himself. He sleeps to image of falling, falling, falling, and wakes with a start when he hits the ground. 

The alarm clock on his beside table is blaring, the neon numbers flashing six-oh-six on the display. Pete launches it across the room. The crash of it bouncing to the floor hurts his head. He groans and presses his face to his cool pillow. There’s a muffled beep from his phone, buried deep in his back pocket, and he gropes for it blindly and smashes the send button until it goes through.

“Why is there a Trohman in my apartment?” Chris asks, voice high. Pete rolls onto his back and presses the heel of his free hand into his eye. It’s too early for this shit. “Wentz, dude, why is there a _fifteen year old_ in my place of business?”

“Because he gives me rides,“ Pete says throatily. His legs are caught up in the sheets, one shoe gone. “Also, he’s a pretty decent kid. Don’t be a shit.” The sounds of commotion that are filtering through the phone line signal that the party’s still a go, so Pete reluctantly forces himself to find his shoe and take the steps down with an alarming lack of grace. 

“Pete I swear to god, if I get caught with this kid-“

“Suck a dick, dude. You’ve fucked chicks his age. Just let him chill.” Pete waves a hand at his brother as he passes into the kitchen, eyeing his mother’s cooking left out on the table. It’s burnt on top, and Pete’s pretty sure it’s undercooked inside. He bypasses it, reaching inside the refrigerator for the jar of pickles.

“You’re a dick, man,” Chris says. He seems to be soothed for the moment, though, so Pete takes it as a win. “You’re also sort of creepy for hanging out with a kid.”

“Two kids,” Pete corrects around a sour dill. “Met this dude today with a pretty decent voice. Joe’s gonna bring him around tonight.” Pete kicks the refrigerator door shut and heads outside. The has gotten colder, sliding under his clothes to give him goosebumps. 

“Are you really gonna do that thing with Trohman?”

“Are you really a douche?”

“Touché.” 

“Hey, look, I’m gonna hang up. See you at the party.” Pete snaps his phone shut and makes his way down the street.

The summer heat has faded, leaving the air cool and damp. Pete’s not really sure of where he’s going, roaming the streets for the sake of it. There’s pain in his knuckles , and the leftovers of the pulls are eating at him, dragging him down and making him slow. The scrape of his sneakers on the pavement drags shivers up his spine, into his neck. He stares at the sky until his eyes sting.

\---

Patrick looks small in the passenger’s seat of Joe’s mom’s car, dressed in too big jeans and a t-shirt, short hair sticking up awkwardly. Pete pounds his open palm on the window, laughing as the kid jumps, and throws himself into the back seat. He fits in on his back if he lifts his feet to the door, neck bent a little. Being small pays off, sometimes.

Joe drives like a kid still in driver’s ed, all jerky stops and sudden starts. The radio is up loud, playing something soft and jazzy that is most definitely not from Joe’s collection. Pete can see Patrick’s mouth moving silently along with the lyrics, pretty pink lips wrapping around the words easily. Comfort music. Pete taps his foot against the passenger’s seat and hums along with the saxophone.

“Shit, Trohman. Can you swing by Morgan’s?” Pete scratches at his greasy hair with his blunt nails, one eye squinting closed against the sun. The car bounces over the curb as Joe takes a corner too quick, the sound of Patrick’s hand smacking against the dash breaking the even tempo of the song on the radio.

“You probably shouldn’t be driving,” Patrick says, voice strained. 

“I get my license in, like, two weeks,” Joe answers, bouncing off another curb. Patrick’s fingers wrap around his seatbelt tightly. 

“Can I drive next time?” he asks, eyes closed. “I already have mine, and you’re kind of scaring me.”

“Live a little.” Pete lurches towards the front in time with the jerk of the car. He pats the kid’s head and rolls out of the backseat as Joe stops at the corner. “Morgan!” His legs feel shaky as he bounds up to her front door. He knocks twice hard with the side of his fist, pressing his mouth to the crack of the door. It tastes like dirt. “Let’s go!”

Morgan’s jeans are a god-awful purple, and her top’s slutty in a way Pete appreciates, cut over her pierced belly button. Her choppily cut hair is messy around her face, dark against her tan cheeks. She’s wearing annoyance across her hips, arms crossed under her breasts. Pete does his level best to keep it in stride. Wraps his arms around her bare stomach and presses a kiss to her temple.

“Let’s go.” He takes her hand and tugs, the victory his for the moment. “Morgan, Patrick.” Pete says, sliding into the backseat. “Rick, Morgan. Trohman, hit the gas.” Patrick braces himself up front. Pete doesn’t bother, just opens his arms to catch Morgan against his chest as Joe squeals down the road. She lets her shoulder dig into his ribs, elbow tucked into the pit of his belly. Pete tries not to sigh. It’s going to be a long night.

\---

Pete flicks his bangs out of his eyes, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead, and hurtles toward the opposing guard. He’s not wearing his shin guards, and his leg cracks painfully against the other guy’s as he steals the ball, the sound dulled by the blood rushing in his ears. Shocks run through his bones as he runs, smacking the ball between his feet as he runs towards the goal.

He loves soccer. He loves the sweat, the strain in his thighs and stomach, the dizziness that comes when he stops running, the burn in his lungs. It’s like sex without out the buildup, without the partner or messy finish. When he’s playing soccer, it’s just him and the ball and the guys on his team. There is no Pete Wentz, just number seventeen in his red jersey and shorts, speeding down the field.

A foot slips between his, stealing the ball back. Pain spikes in his side, the beginning of a cramp working its way under his skin. His cleats tear into the grass, sending up clumps of dirt and mud as he takes a quick turn, racing back after the defender. There’s a smash of hot skin against his front, the slide of a jersey against his, and then he’s on the ground, grass and mud and sweat smearing into his too hot skin. The buzzer sounds as he’s hauling himself off the ground.

DePaul’s pulled through to win, eight to six. Someone throws an arm around Pete’s shoulders and hauls him to the victory huddle. Pete whoops along with them breathlessly and yanks off his jersey, throwing it into the air. His skin feels like it’s on fire.

They go through the high-fives with the other team. Pete hits harder than he needs to, smiling wide enough to bare his teeth at each person that passes him. His heart is still racing in his chest as he runs to grab his bag from the locker room. 

Morgan doesn’t hug him when he slides onto the bleachers next to her. She presses a kiss to her own fingers, though, and touches them to his sweaty cheek. They’re cool, and Pete leans into them for it. 

“Good game,” Morgan says around her sucker, leaning back into the bleacher-seat. “You looked hot out there.” Pete grins.

“Want to join me for a post-game shower?’

“Am I the trophy?” She raises her eyebrows, lips puckered and red around the sucker. When Pete leans in to press his face to her neck, she smells like lavender and sunblock. She squeals when he picks her up, but she wraps her arms around his neck and lets him carry her back to the empty locker room.

He fucks her up against the shower wall, the burn in his thighs left over from running the strongest thing he feels.

\---

“We should probably write something,” Pete says, plucking idly at his bass. His feet are up on Chris’ table, shoes muddy, jeans tight enough to make the position a little uncomfortable. The VCR is blinking seven-thirty-two am, but Pete’s phone says it’s five-thirty-three in the evening. Their bellies are full of take out from Hong Kong Express and they’re all lazing about complacently. Pete’s bored out of his skull. 

Tim’s staring at his guitar, eyebrows furrowed. Pete wonders if he thinks the music will write itself that way. He thinks that, if it’s going to happen that way, they’re going to need weed. A lot of weed. He thumps his thumb against the G string and leans into the couch more. 

“I think,” Chris says slowly, poking at the last of the fried rice, “that we’re too mellow to write.” This is a valid point. Pete thumbs the G again. Thinks about what pills he still needs to take before he tries to sleep again. Wonders if he can fake some anger for the good of the band.

“We’re kind of shitty,” he says after a few moments. Chris shrugs and shovels a forkful of rice into his mouth. Tim looks after it mournfully. Pete’s about to restate his declaration when his phone starts playing _Crazy Train_. He thumbs it open, rolling his eyes at Tim and Chris’ battle over the last eggroll. “What do you want, Trohman?”

“Patrick found us a guitarist.” Joe’s voice breaks on the last syllable and Pete winces. Then he picks up on what the kid actually said and lets out an appreciative huff.

“Busy little dude,” he says.

“You have no idea, man. He showed me some stuff he did with his computer. It’s crazy.” Joe whistles low and loud, and there’s a yell in the background. “Dude, I’m singing your praises. Shut the fuck up. So, yeah, no, he’s got this pretty awesome song written already. He did it with, like, a keyboard. A _keyboard_ , dude.”

There’s a scuffle over the phone, and Pete hears it smack to the floor, followed by a volley of curses and mutter of his own name. He grins and taps his thumb on the neck of his bass as he waits. Finally, Joe’s back on the line, a little breathless.

“He says he wants you to hear it- _ow_ you _fucker_ \- and that you should come over to hang.” Joe whines in a way that Pete’s familiar with- he’s getting his hair pulled, from the sound of it. Pete snorts, waving off Chris and Tim’s curious looks.

“Give me a half hour,” he says, hanging up before Joe can respond. His ego is swollen nicely. Maybe hanging out with kids isn’t all that bad. “I’m gonna jet.”

“Babysitting?” Chris asks, eyebrows raised. Pete flips him off as he packs up his bass.

“Troh thinks Patrick’s got something good,” he says, shrugging. He tosses his case over his back and waves. “Catch you later, yeah?”

The walk from Chris’ place to Patrick’s is sort of a long one, but Pete’s on something or other that makes him antsy, curls tension up inside of him until he feels like exploding. Another brand to add to the growing list of things that haven’t worked to make his brain slow down. It’s like a game now; hit or miss or go back three steps. Roulette in a rainbow of sizes and shapes and bitter residue on the back of his tongue. He wonders if they’ll ever figure out what’s wrong with him.

Joe and Patrick are sitting outside on the steps, glass of lemonade in their hands, when Pete shows up roughly a half hour late. Joe raises his glass in a salute, and Patrick toes at the ground with his dirty Chuck Taylors, eyes somewhere level with Pete’s chest. Pete ducks down to meet his eyes and grins.

“I have arrived,” he says grandly, throwing out the arm that isn’t holding onto the strap of his case. “Shower me with praises and Doritos.”

“How about sour lemonade and Fritos?” Joe replies, shaking the bag that’s been sitting between his and Patrick’s hips. Pete nods his acceptance and flops down onto Patrick’s lap, laughing raucously at the terror written on the kid’s face. He takes a handful of chips, stuffs most of them into his mouth, and makes a grab hand at Joe’s cup. “Get your own, asshole.”

“You’re terribly abusive, Joseph,” Pete says around the mush in his mouth. “Patrick, tell him to share.” Patrick chokes a little on his own drink, face going red. Pete claps him on the back. “Dude, you’re-“

“ _Pete_ ,” Joe warns. Pete lets it drop. Fucking kids. “Patrick, dude, go get your laptop.”

“I’m kind of stuck.” Patrick shoves weakly at Pete’s side, but Pete throws an arm over his shoulders and clings on.

“Mind your manners, Troh. I’m bonding.” Pete pats Patrick’s cheek. Joe rolls his eyes as he shoves up to his feet. He sends Pete a _don’t be a douche_ look before disappearing into the house. Pete fights down the urge to bristle as he slips off Patrick’s lap onto the porch, helping himself to Joe’s lemonade. It’s sour as all hell, but the sun is high in the sky, and Pete’s been walking for the past hour.

“You’re kind of a dick,” Patrick says, squinting against the sunlight. The bridge of his nose is pink and peeling, and there’s a mess of freckles under the sunburnt skin. He scratches at it absently, waiting for Pete’s reaction. Pete can’t help his little laugh.

“Part of the Pete Wentz package,” he says. The kid’s gutsy. “You get used to it.” Before Patrick can respond, Joe’s back with a dull silver MacBook and a new glass of lemonade. His foresight is, as always, impressive.

“So he won’t let me show you the other one, but-“ Joe shoves his way in between them, bony ass half on Pete’s lap, half on Patrick’s. The lemonade sloshes and bounces, and Patrick looks like someone’s about to kick him in the balls, hands half raised to grab the laptop. Joe settles in without incident and triumphantly presses play.

Pete closes his eyes as a drum track starts up. The music is rough and fast and more melodic than anything Pete’s ever played, catchy little riffs and solid basslines. It isn’t perfect or breathtaking or anything extreme, but it’s good. Really good. Especially for a kid just using a damn keyboard. Joe lets the track repeat, and Pete finds himself nodding along, wishing for lyrics and a voice to fill in the empty spaces. When he cracks open one eye, he can see Patrick fidgeting on the other side of Joe, staring fixedly at the holes in the knees of his jeans.

“That’s pretty good,” Pete says when Joe cuts the sound. He sees the relax of Patrick’s shoulders, can almost hear the relief in his breath. The kid’s terrified of his opinion. Pete tries his best not to feel smug. “Do you have a vocal melody?”

“Yeah. Uh. I’m working on lyrics.” Patrick leans back, finally looking u at them. Joe’s grin is ridiculously wide. “They’re kind of shitty.”

“Show me.” Pete grabs at the laptop, ignoring Patrick’s shouts. He pokes around in the files until he finds something that looks promising. 

“Pete, come on.” Patrick looks at him with something wild and skittish across his face. It makes the asshole in Pete crow and he hits the enter key before the rest of him can catch up. 

The song is rougher, with gaps in some of the tracks where Patrick hasn’t written in the part yet, but there’s a feeling in it that grabs Pete in the chest and hangs on. Also, Patrick’s voice, soft and sure, is laid over it, and it’s pretty much perfect. The lyrics are okay enough- a little obvious, a little typical- but, still. The kid’s got a lot of talent in that pretty little head of his. 

“Dude,” Pete says when the track plays out. “You’ve been holding out.”

“It’s not finished,” Patrick mumbles. His cheeks are red under the sunburn, bottom lip white from where he’s been sucking on it. “I don’t like people listening to stuff that isn’t done.”

“Dude. _Band_. There’s multiples, y’know?” Pete scrolls through the files, impressed with the sheer number of them. “You don’t go out a lot, do you?” Patrick’s shoulders tighten, but Pete waves a hand at him before he can make his case. “Do you play guitar, too?”

“Not really, no.”

“Is that a ‘not really, no, I don’t have a glorious voice’ or a ‘not really, no, I’ve never touched a girl’s tit’?” Pete clicks another file and presses play. Patrick punches him, hard, in the chest and takes the computer, the red in his face no longer just from shyness. Joe presses into him until he calms down. Pete blows his bangs out of his eyes as he waits for the kid to get over his tantrum.

“My dad taught me a little,” Patrick says finally, squinting at the sky. “But if I could play? I wouldn’t have to keyboard in the parts.” Pete nods. It makes sense. He rubs his thumb over the curve of his bared hipbone, leaning back into the steps. 

“You should write out the parts,” Joe says. 

“Um. I already have?” Patrick scuffs at the ground before opening a file on his laptop. When he turns it, there’s sheet music on the screen. _Sheet music_. Pete shakes his head.

“Fucking weird, dude,” he says, slightly in awe. “You’re a tiny little genius, huh?”

“ _You’re_ fucking tiny, douchebag,” Patrick snaps. Pete grins. The kid’s kind of easy to piss off, and Pete plans on doing it as often as he can. “Music’s kind of my thing.”

“Obviously.” Pete taps a beat against his thigh before hopping up, dragging Joe with him. “Let’s go.”

“Huh?” Joe frowns, looking between Pete and Patrick, eyebrows drawn together.

“Practice, learn, whatever.” Pete flaps a hand at Patrick, motioning to the door. “Lead the way, Rickster.”

“Huh?”

“Braindead, dudes. You’re both braindead.” Pete shoves his way into the house, bumping his bass into to many things to be safe. Patrick trails after him worriedly, hands outstretched to catch anything that may fall. Pete detours into the basemen and takes the stairs down three at a time. Something good’s going to happen.

\---

Pete thinks that he chose Poli-Sci for the psychology classes. He’s been through enough shrinks to last three or four lifetimes and, so far, not a damn one has done anything for him. He checks down Psych 3010 and Theories of Personality on his sign-up sheet and wonders if, someday, he’ll be able to save his parents some cash and just self-diagnose.

He’s signing up for Russian history when his phone buzzes against his thigh. Pete ignores it, checkmarking Classic Literature. His phone buzzes again. Again. Pete tucks his sheet into the drop box, grabs his bag, and heads out of the main building. He answers his phone on the fourth ring, tucking it between his cheek and shoulder.

“Surprisingly enough, I do have things to do that aren’t talking on the phone,” he says into the receiver as he jogs to the parking lot. 

“You’re an asshole, Wentz,” Morgan says tersely.

“And you’re obsessive. Match well played.” He slides over the hood of Joe’s car, scaring the hell out of the kid, and slips into the passenger’s seat. 

“I don’t know why I even bother with you.”

“My charming personality and devilish good looks?” Pete nods at Joe in greeting and tosses his bag into the back. “Or the sex.”

“Mostly the sex,” Morgan agrees. She’s easy enough to placate. Pete loves that about her. “My parents are out this weekend. Want to play sleepover?”

“Will there be pillow fights?”

“Naturally.” Morgan’s voice cuts as they pass under a train track lift. “Saturday? One-ish?” Pete hums his approval and lets the bad reception end the call for him. Joe isn’t saying anything, but he’s bouncing in his seat, looking at him out of the corner of his eye curiously. 

“One day, you, too, will have sleepovers at a slutty young lady’s house,” Pete says wisely.

“How do you do it, dude?” Joe shakes his head and takes a sharp turn onto Patrick’s street, hand over handing the wheel. 

“Years of experience.” Pete digs through his bag until he finds his stash of condoms and tosses one at Joe’s head. “For the day you find one of those high school chicks that are into your ugly ass hair.” Joe pulls a face at him. “So, you and Rick have been cozy lately. Is he weird?”

“Completely,” Joe says, cutting the engine. “But so are you, so.” He shrugs and grins. Pete rolls his eyes.

Joe’s a good kid. Easily influenced, but sweet. Witty. Interesting enough to have a conversation with, young enough to pick up all of Pete’s bad habits. He’s their Number One Fan, and it fits pretty well. He’d stalked them for months- truly a man after Pete’s own heart- until Pete had finally broken down and bought the kid a Long Island Iced Tea. The after effects had been hilarious and, when Pete’s license was taken away, he had been nice enough to offer himself up as a chauffer. It’s been smooth sailing ever since.  
They walk in without knocking, making a beeline for the basement. Patrick isn’t home yet, still at school, so they settle in on the couch and dig into Patrick’s poorly hidden stash of chocolate mini-cookies. Pete reluctantly pulls out his Ethics homework and begins scribbling in answers, shoveling cookies in his mouth as he goes.

“Yo, Troh, know anything about Plato’s _Republic_?” He asks, taking the last sweet out of the box. Joe taps his pencil against his teeth, frowning. 

“I think, therefore I am?”

“You’re kind of shit at this, dude.”

“Hi, I’m Joe Trohman, sophomore. In high school.” Joe flashes his homework, his sloppy handwriting on half of it. “This is my biology homework. Notice the multiple choice?”

“Do you get glitter crayons, too?” Pete scratches down an answer he hopes is somewhere close to right.

“Only on Fridays.” Joe kicks off his sneakers. The door opens and Pete yells a greeting.

“Oh, dude, really?” Patrick looks at the empty cookie container, frowning. He drops his bookbag off his shoulder and collapses down onto one of the beanbag chairs a little dramatically. Pete grins behind his pen.

“You’re out of cookies,” he says. “And Doritos.”

‘”I didn’t have any Doritos.”

“Which is why you’re out.” Pete clucks his tongue and signs his name to his homework with a flourish. “How’s your geometry?”

“Unlearned until next year,” Patrick says.

“You two are useless to me.” Pete shoves his Ethics book onto the floor and kicks his shoes off. Joe shakes his head, gnawing on his eraser as he stares at his unfinished homework.

“Are we gonna study all night, or are we actually going to do the music thing?” He asks, lisping over the soft sounds. Pete waves a hand at Patrick, waiting.

“I pick music,” Patrick says, pulling his cell phone from his back pocket. “And you guys owe me cookies.”

“Can I just pay you in sweet, sweet love?” Pete asks, batting his eyelashes. Patrick chokes on his breath, coughing an awkward hello into the phone. Pete cackles to himself and rests his feet on Joe’s lap, wriggling his toes into Joe’s worn out t-shirt.

He likes being in charge, loves being in the spotlight. People’s adoration is addictive, and Pete’s nothing if not an addict, filling himself over and over and over again with the wide-eyed stares and saccharine compliments and stutters over pretty mouths. It’s a game he plays well, and he reaps the benefits with his increasingly large ego intact. Patrick, it seems, is going to be a sweet taste of victory for at least a few more rounds.

“TJ’ll be here in an hour,” Patrick says, staring fixedly at the pile of bags on the floor. Pete grins and pokes his toes into Joe’s gut. 

“Why, that’s just enough time to get a pizza or two,” he says. Joe, who had gone back to puzzling out the classification of the animal kingdom, jerks his head up like a puppy, flickering his eyes from Pete to Patrick and back again.

“I vote yes on pizza,” he says.

“Like you’d ever say no to food, Trohman,” Pete replies. He turns his grin to Patrick. “Well, Lunchbox?”

“Lunchbox?”

Pete points to the little thermos that’s peeking out of Patrick’s backpack, red and stained with something that was probably once tomato soup. Patrick’s cheeks go a faint pink before he kicks it away sulkily, crossing his arms over his chest. It’s endearing. Pete’s about to say as much when Patrick throws him the cordless house phone. It smacks into his chest hard, bouncing into his lap.

“Who’s paying?” Patrick asks, like he already knows. Pete likes him already- much easier to train than Trohman was.

“You’re hosting the party. It’s only fair.” Pete dials the closes Papa John’s and orders two large veggie pizzas, slapping at Joe when he tries to yell for pepperoni. Joe slumps in defeat when Pete hangs up the phone. The war for clearing Joe’s stomach of animal parts is a slow one, but Pete’s working pretty steadily on it.

TJ comes through the door an hour later, eying the empty pizza boxes left on the table sadly. He’s older than Patrick and Joe, younger than Pete, stuck in the place after high school and before college. If Pete cared enough, he could probably talk him through a good deal of the bullshit. As it is, Pete thinks he’s a boring, half-talented, unattractive kid, so he keeps his mouth shut about the matter.

Patrick and Joe have moved to the floor, sprawled out over Joe’s biology book. It turns out that Patrick’s a little bio savant. Pete’s been calling him Doctor Stumph, extra emphasis on the _umph_. They roll up on their knees when TJ sets his bag down and begin clearing out one area to set his things up in, shooting Pete dirty looks as he directs from the couch.  
They haven’t actually found a drummer yet, so Patrick sets up his MacBook to play drumtracks as they go along. Pete, TJ, and Joe plug in and settle in around him, waiting for his cues. Pete’s loaning him a mic- of all the ridiculous instruments the kid has, a microphone isn’t one- and the cord’s wrapped around his wrist a few times, separated from his skin by a little black sweat band. He awkwardly starts up the track, and they try to remember everything they learned the week before. 

It’s not the most accomplished practice Pete’s ever been to, but. It’s getting there. He doesn’t move as smoothly with them as he does with Chris and Tim and Andy, can’t read them as easily, but still. Joe’s a talented little shit, adding on to what Patrick had showed him last week on the spot, and Patrick’s voice is the same crisp, clear sound that Pete’s starting to love a little, loose and relaxed this time around, confidant in singing his own words and melodies. They’ve got their own kind of flow. It’s a nice change of pace. Pete can get used to this.

TJ is a little out of their rhythm, a little forced. He doesn’t pick up things as quickly, doesn’t listen to Patrick’s suggestions about fills and riffs at all. Patrick says nothing, but Pete can see him struggling against the urge to lash out. TJ’s older, but Patrick’s the best musician in the room, hands down. Not that Pete’ll admit it. Joe shares a look with him across the room. They know he’s not going to last long.

Practice ends when Joe’s mom calls. TJ packs up and heads at first, Joe at his heels. Pete opts to stay, packing up slowly, watching Patrick tidy up out of the corner of his eye. Patrick doesn’t seem to notice him until he’s done shutting down the PA and tucking his laptop away.

“Oh. Hey.” He folds onto the couch, tucking his legs under himself. “I thought you left with Joe.”

“Nah.” Pete settles in next to him, studying him closely. Patrick fidgets under his stare. “Were does it come from?”

“Um. What?”

“Your music, dude.” Pete taps Patrick’s forehead, right between his eyes. “Is it, like, trapped in there?”

“Pretty much.” Patrick spreads his hand out over the MacBook in his lap, rubbing his thumb absently over the cover. “I just think in it, y’know? Like, I have to get it out, or it’ll drive me crazy.” Pete snorts. He understands crazy.

“You’re pretty good,” Pete says honestly. Patrick grins, his entire face lighting up with it. 

“Really?”

“Don’t get a complex.” Pete shoves his head back with the flat of his palm. “You need to work on your lyrics, though. They’re kind of. Eh?”

“Now?” Patrick glances at his bookbag and up at the clock. “Can we break for History homework?”

“I am a fabulous historian, Rick,” Pete responds. “But I am in dire need of nutrition. Feed me.” Patrick rolls his eyes but leads the way to the kitchen. There’s a wrapped casserole dish on the stove and a note taped to the top of it. Patrick’s face falls a little when he catches sight of it. Pete reads the note over his shoulder. 

_You sounded so good honey! I’ll see you when you get home from school. Love you!_

“You okay?” 

“Yeah.” Patrick digs out bowls and forks and scoops out spoonfuls of his mother’s macaroni and cheese. Pete eyes the bills on the refrigerator, the endless army of photos of Patrick and his mother and a boy that must be his brother. He winces because he understands this, too.

They settle in on the floor in the living room, bowls on their laps as Patrick pulls out his history homework. Pete snatches it out of his hand, shoving food into his mouth at an alarming speed. He hadn’t realized exactly how hungry he was until Patrick had shoved the bowl into his chest.

“Really, dude?”

“Sophomore.”

“Really?”

“Sophomore.”

“ _Really?_ ”

Patrick smacks Pete’s hand and jerks his sheet back, fork hanging out of his mouth. He roots around under the couch for the remote, flipping the TV onto the big band music station when he finds it. Pete grimaces. 

“My house, my music,” Patrick says, and Pete reluctantly accepts. He’s about to start rattling off the answers to Patrick’s ridiculously elementary homework when his phone screeches. “That’s sort of painful.”

“So’s Morgan’s voice,” Pete says before flipping his phone open. “Pizza Hut, how can I help you?”

“Charming. Really,” Morgan says across the line. “What are you doing?”

“Tutoring Patrick.” Pete ignores the indignant look Patrick gives him in favor of heading to the kitchen for seconds. He’s already making plans about staying over for dinner more often- Mrs. Stumph’s cooking is hands down better than his own mother’s. “It’s a grueling process, but he puts out.”

“Take lot of pictures.”

“Done.” Pete steals a Dr. Pepper from the refrigerator and hops up onto the counter, legs dangling down against the cupboards. 

“Dee’s having a party tonight,” Morgan says, and Pete steels himself. He hates her friends because they’re bitches and Morgan knows it. It’s too much to ask him to sit through their endless critique of his hair or his height or his admittedly juvenile humor. 

“I actually am tutoring.” Pete throws a spoon from the sink at Patrick through the archway. It bounces off the kid’s shoulderblade, onto the orange carpet. Patrick shoots him an irritated look. Pete covers the mouthpiece of his phone and mouths _help me_. Patrick stares blankly at him. Pete rolls his eyes. “Patrick needs my help.” Pete widens his eyes pointedly. Finally, Patrick catches on, his mouth opening into a little ‘o’. 

“Pete,” he calls flatly. “I’m not sleeping with you for nothing!”

“He sounds adorable,” Morgan deadpans.

“He is,” Pete says agreeably. It’s true, too, in an abstract way. “Love you. See you Saturday.”

“Love you, too-“

Pete clicks his phone shut and slides off the counter. Disaster avoided for the time being, sex still guaranteed. He flops down on the floor next to Patrick and snatches his pencil and paper, filling out the rest of the answers before Patrick can ask him what he’s doing. 

“A favor for a favor,” he explains. Patrick looks at him for a long moment, bright blue eyes narrowed in thought. 

“If you don’t like her,” he starts slowly, “why do you go out with her?”

“I love her,” Pete answers honestly.

He does, too. She’s smart in every way that doesn’t matter; able to follow his rambling logic better than any one else he’s ever been with. Her wit is dry enough to keep his interest, and she’s slutty enough to keep him in bed with just her. Mostly. It’s a little like hate the way he loves her, but, still. Love all the same. 

Patrick stares at him for a minute longer before tucking his homework back into his notebook. The music on the TV switches over to something by Sinatra and Patrick sings along as he does their dishes in the kitchen. Pete falls asleep on the couch, Patrick’s voice ringing in his ears. 

\---

Pete wakes to the sound of a crash in the kitchen, toppling off the couch onto the floor. His belt digs into his hip painfully, and his legs are tangled up uselessly in an old afghan. He rolls ungracefully to his feet, kicking the blanket away furiously. There’s another crash, followed by Patrick’s muffled voice spitting out curses. 

In the kitchen, Patrick’s knocked over the trashcan and is in the process of picking everything back up, paper towels wrapped around his hands like gloves. Pete snorts a little unkindly, startling the kid into dropping everything again. It’s hilarious this early in the morning.

Patrick’s in the same ripped jeans, but he’s swapped his polo for a gray t-shirt with _Glenbrook High Marching Band_ printed on the front in faded red letters. His backpack is on the counter, opened, and there’s a halfway packed lunch sitting next to it. Pete snags the peanut butter and honey sandwich while Patrick isn’t looking, claiming it as his own. Finders and keepers, all that jazz.

It’s been a long time since Pete’s had to do the early morning high school routine, and he can’t say he misses it. He makes sure to schedule afternoon classes meticulously- not that he isn’t awake ridiculously early, but he likes having his mornings free. It gives him time to sort out his homework and his clothes and his meds. He blinks, sandwich halfway to his mouth. His meds. He didn’t take them, hadn’t planned on staying at Patrick’s place. This is the first time in months, maybe longer, that he’s been able to sleep an entire night without them.

Patrick, finished with the trash, has started making a new sandwich, glaring at Pete. The morning light catches the red in his hair, highlights the curve of his babyfat cheeks. Pete chews on his sandwich slowly and ponders the newest development of his fucked up mentality.

“Hey,” he says suddenly. Patrick drops his wrapped sandwich. He rolls his eyes and bends to pick it up, waving at Pete to go on. “You should ditch class.”

“Yeah, no,” Patrick replies. He shoves his lunch, wrapped up in a paper bag, into his bookbag and closes it, yanking it on over his shoulders. “My mom would kill me, for starters.” He pats down his pockets, pulling out his wallet and phone a little frantically before finding his keys, shoulders dropping in relief. 

“She doesn’t have to know.” Pete helps himself to the cup of coffee on the counter next to him, grimacing at the bitterness of it. “Oh, dude, put more sugar this shit. Seriously.”

“Or you could make your own,” Patrick points out. Pete waves a hand at him. “Seriously, though, I’m already running late. Do you need me to drop you off somewhere?”

“Home, I guess.” Pete slides off the counter, cup still in hand. “You should really consider the skipping thing. Just saying.” He gives the kid a grin before heading towards the basement to grab his things.

When he gets back, Patrick’s taken his bag off and is staring at it like it’s going to give him the answers to next week’s test. Pete knows next to nothing about Patrick, but he knows that face already from the dozens of people he’s talked into doing things. Pete doesn’t crow, but he comes close to it.

“You have to call the school,” Patrick says like a warning. The sunburn that’s still lingering on the bridge of his nose looks like a blush, and the freckles stand out through it, bold and orange, and Pete laughs because he was never that young. Not really. “And keep me entertained until after three.”

“Like that’s going to be an issue.” Pete helps himself to the last of Patrick’s coffee, throws Patrick’s backpack on over his own, and matches toward the door, Patrick at his heels. He tosses himself into Patrick’s shitty old Dodge, coughing at the dust that clouds up off the seat.

“Yeah, um. Watch for that,” Patrick mumbles as he does up his seatbelt.

Pete misses his little Honda, with its Sharpie scribbled dashboard and ripped seat covers and broken stereo. His parents had given it to him for his sixteenth birthday and he’d been wrecking it ever since. Chris called it the Wentzmobile and spray painted big, bold, pink stripes across the hood in the high school parking lot a week after Pete had presented it proudly. Over time, they faded into something like lavender, and Pete loved them like a piece of himself, right up until only three months ago when he wrapped them around a lamppost. He’s lucky to only have gotten his license pulled and knows it. 

Patrick makes it back to the Wentz house with minimal injury, save his tire bouncing off a stray curb, and Pete makes good on his promise to call the school. With their backpacks tossed on the couch and their shoes left on the mat by the door, Pete drags Patrick the three flights of stairs to his room. Patrick huffs and puffs in the doorway, face red, sweat at his temples. Pete shrugs. He’s gotten used to the climb. When Patrick unbends, catches his breath, he looses it again when he starts looking around the room.

Pete smirks and throws his arms out, standing in the middle of the room. _This is me,_ he thinks. _This is my collection of life and love and mistakes and victories, scrunched up into a ten by ten box._.

The floor is heaped with clothes organized by season jeans and shorts and itty-bitty t-shirts in one corner, hoodies and sweat pants and socks sewn into doubles cattycornered from them, with the remainders in between. There’s a shelf for his soccer trophies, all of them lined up in a giant line of defense against a team of Transformers action figures. The walls are green, but they’re lost under dozens of photographs and posters and scribbled words in too many colors of violence. 

The books on the nightstand have Nietzsche and Orwell and Hemmingway on the spines, and the books actually on the shelf all face spine to the wall. He likes to be surprised. Two dozen phone numbers are written carefully on his bedpost in his own cramped handwriting, a documentary of all the people he never loved in chronological order. Morgan’s first three digits are at the bottom, under Jill-or-Janet’s. There’s a handful of orange plastic bottles on top of his television, Ativan for insomnia, Tegretol for mania, Effexor for depression. The monthly pill box he’s supposed to use is empty on the floor by the dresser. 

It shouldn’t be a surprise when Patrick heads straight for Pete’s hanging rack of CDs, but Pete still laughs, just like every time someone takes him in. He’s not dependant, but rejection stings no matter the delivery. It gives him the freedom to throw himself onto his military-tight made bed.

“Your taste in music is offensive,” Patrick says from across the room. His nose is scrunched, fingers ghosting over the spines of the CD cases. He pulls out a particularly offensive album, if the look on his face says anything, and flips it to look at the cover. Pete snorts. Like the kid can judge him.

“My soul will survive your cruelty,” Pete says, waving a hand. “Did you bring your lyrics?” It’s not hard to see the wince across Patrick’s shoulder. Pete snorts again. 

Patrick rifles through his bag and throws a green notebook onto the bed. He doesn’t sit down, and Pete doesn’t ask him to. Instead, Pete flips the cover back and makes his way through verse after verse after chorus, page by page, until he hits empty space. He doesn’t look up


	10. Just to Feel the Fear, Patrick/Joe, PG-13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally for a Horror Big Bang. Funny Games AU. No actual horror present yet.

Patrick locked the door to the old brownstone and tucked the key into the hanging mailbox. He felt an ache through his chest as he gathered up his laptop bag and suitcase, lingering on the wooden porch for a few moments longer. This was it. This was them booking out of Chicago for once and for all, better or worse.

In the car, Joe was changing radio stations, anxious flips from Metallica to Creed and back again, the shuffle of the stations between like static. His hair was wild and uncombed, thick curls down to his ears, stubble across his jaw. There were tired circles under his eyes- the result of long nights spent packing- but he smiled brightly when Patrick slid into the seat next to him. Patrick smiled back and the ache faded from his chest. California wasn’t ever going to be home, but Joe with him would make it feel like it.

The old Dodge Spirit was small, loaded down with boxes and bags full of six years worth of collected junk, and it stuttered when Joe backed down the driveway, its old wheels wobbling in their wells. The thing’s paint job was a wreck, chips and rust stains across the doors and bumper, an ugly maroon that matched the sticky vinyl seats. Patrick smoothed a hand over the dashboard as Joe switched gears, taking one last look at the house.

He and Joe had lived out of the car once, when things had gotten too rough. It had been cramped and hard and humiliating, the end of a Chicago winter forcing them into coats and triple layers of shirts and socks, but they had worked through it and out on top months later, exhausted but stronger, money from multiple jobs in their pockets. It had been enough to pay security deposit on the house’s rent, and they hadn’t left it since.

It’s the story of their lives, really: struggle and prosper, more heart than brains. Patrick looked at the stretch of road in front of him and watched the neighborhood fall away. Their hard work, their dedication, was finally paying off. They were moving up in the world. 

“So,” Joe started, glancing over at Patrick as he coasted past the city limits. “You’re sure Andy’s cool with us using his cabin, right? Like, he’s not going to be pissed if we fuck in the guest room or anything?” Patrick snorted and rested his feet on the dashboard, shiny silver sneakers catching the sunlight and sending it dancing across the roof of the car. 

“Romantic,” he said dryly. Joe flipped him the bird and grinned, merging onto the highway. “Yeah, no, he said he’s going to stay in Wisconsin for the summer. The cabin’s ours.” Patrick tapped his toes against the smudged windshield in time to Enter Sandman, relaxing into the seat. They had a long ride ahead of them. “He said we can use the boat, too.”

“Dude, and ruin your delicate complexion?” Joe asked, laughing at the sharp punch aimed at his shoulder. “Can we, like, fish or something?”

“I guess.” Patrick shrugged. “It’s just for two weeks right? Stop over in Wyoming for a while before crunch time? We can totally learn how to fish in two weeks.” The sun shone brightly as they sped down the road, and Patrick felt something like contentment settle over him. 

Music has always been their thing, their safe place. It had brought them together as teenagers and kept them together as adults. It had kept Patrick company through sleepless nights and given him hope when he’d needed it. Doing music for real, as a job, with Joe as his right hand man was more than Patrick could ever ask for. 

It felt too good to be true. A contract with a small label, a handful of cash to make his own CD to put out for the masses. Joe had laughed and tackled him to the ground when the contact had hit the kitchen table, heavy with black ink and legal jargon, their names on pages one, six, and twelve. They’d stayed there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the future.

Patrick smiled to himself, face warmed by the sun. Joe’s fingers tapped against his knee lightly, a syncopated rhythm, and Patrick hummed to the beat of it. The road stretched on ahead of them, full of open promises.

 

\---

The cabin was small. Rustic. The driveway that led up to it was framed by trees, pines and maples and an old oak, their leaves green and bushy. At the front of the cabin, twin garden boxes sat under the windows, overgrown with weeds and tulips and carnations. The air smelled of fresh water and lavender and cut grass. It was like something out of a movie.

The cabin itself was short and squat, hand built by Hurley’s grandfather before Hurley had even been thought about. It had a wooden porch with an old, creaky swing seat off to one side, a thatch of bushes on either side of the solid steps. The thick wood of the cabin was stained a deep mahogany, old but still in good shape.

When Patrick took a look around the back, he could see a large lake close by, the Hurley family boat docked and bobbing cheerily in the light breeze. There was a fire pit in the backyard, ringed with huge, flat stones and filled with ash. It was all beautiful and a little surreal, but the first longing for the city hit him hard in the chest as he looked at the distance between this cabin and the next.

Inside, Joe had dumped their suitcases in the living room and flipped on the air conditioner. The thing rattled in the corner, spitting out cold air in little pulses. Patrick eyed it warily as he made his way through the living room. Off the living room was a narrow hall, the doors to the master and guest bedrooms and bathroom open. The kitchen was tucked away on the opposite side, small but efficient. It all seemed. Nice. Patrick could appreciate it.

“Dude, baby Hurley,” Joe shouted from the bedroom. Patrick followed the sound of his voice, peeking into the guest room. Joe held up the photo frame, waggling his eyebrows. In the photo, a very naked, very serious toddler version of Andy frowned at the camera from the deck of the family boat. “At least we know he’s, like, consistent or whatever.”

“Flip it over,” Patrick said. “I don’t want him to watch if anything happens.” Joe grinned and turned the frame face down on the nightstand with a soft click.

“I only get an if, dude?” Joe flopped back on the bed, legs spread, arms out. Patrick crawled up the edge of the mattress, toeing off his shoes. He felt free and giddy, happy as he ran a flat palm up the inseam of Joe’s thigh. 

“Maybe more than an if,” he rectified. Joe pulled him down and laughed into the messy, off centered kiss it resulted in. Patrick sank into him and relaxed. This was going to be a great vacation.

\---

“We totally suck at this,” Joe said, tapping his fishing rod against the side of the boat. It clanged merrily, the lake water rippling as he upset the cheery bobber. 

“Correction: you suck at this,” Patrick said smugly, motioning to the little cooler at his side. Inside it, three big mouth bass stared up glassily, iced and ready to be dinner.

Above them, the sun beat down hotly, the reflection off the clear, clean water almost too bright. Patrick was coated liberally in sunblock, his skin greasy with it, nose itching from the smell. Joe, as naked as Patrick would let him get, was already turning red across his shoulders and nose, freckles pooping out against his skin. He’d shaved, but his wild curls stuck to his face, damp with sweat.

The lake was calm and quiet, the breeze soft and fresh. Joe had driven the boat with a grim determination to keep them from capsizing, which Patrick appreciated, hands at then and two as Patrick laughed from the co-captain's seat. There were a few other boats of varying sizes docked around the lake, but only one other one out. They were too far away to see the captain, but Joe still waved as they floated on by.

Patrick closed his closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat, face to the sun. A hand touched his thigh, large and war, and Patrick pressed up into it. Joe’s fingers curled around his knee, familiar, too hot under the summer sun. It had been too long since they had been able to relax. To just sit and be quiet. Patrick ran slow fingers through Joe’s hair and finally stopped thinking about backtracks and key changes and budgets.

There was a tug on the rod in his hand, sharp and sudden. Joe jerked up, peering over the edge of the boat as Patrick started to reel it in. The fish fought, splashing in the water nearly hard enough to snap Patrick’s line, and Joe’s cheering was more amusing than helpful, but with a sharp yank, Patrick managed to stumble back, an eight inch bass at the end of his line.

“Dude,” Joe said, whistling. He prodded at it, jumping when it flopped over, hook sticking through its fat lip.

“Pull it off,” Patrick said. He held the line up with one hand, the other wrapped around the warm metal of his fishing pole. The fish blinked miserably.

“Your fish,” Joe replied. He pressed a finger into is tender belly, sending it swinging in a circle, pale grey scale glittering in the sunlight. Patrick stopped the rotation with the flat of his palm, grimacing at the feel of the slime against his skin.

“Don’t hurt it.” Patrick steeled himself and stuck a reluctant finger into the thing’s gaping mouth, holding it open. 

“We’re going to eat it,” Joe pointed out. Patrick tugged the barbed hook from the fish’s lip, face screwed up in concentration.

“Yeah, but we don’t have to torture it,” Patrick replied. The fish dropped into the cooler with a crunch of ice, flopping over one last time before Patrick closed the lid. He shuddered and reached for the can of night crawlers. 

“You’re a softie, dude,” Joe said fondly. Patrick rolled his eyes and flicked wet soil at him. Something felt off, a prickle up Patrick spine as he threaded the worm on his hook. Like maybe someone was watching, just off in the distance. Patrick pushed it down and cast his line, watching the bobber hit the water.

“Your face is a softie,” he said.

“Jerk.”

“Jackass.” Patrick reeled in the slack and watched the other boat dock. It didn’t make him feel better.

\---

Patrick cooked the fish when they got back to the cabin. The kitchen smelled heavily of oil and burning flour, Patrick’s humming echoing off the walls. The oil in the pan hissed as Patrick gingerly laid a fillet into the pan with the tips of his fingers. He jerked his hand back as the oil sizzled, but a few drops caught him nonetheless, hot on the inside of his wrist.

He sucked on the sore spot, the burn hot and salty under his tongue. When he pulled back, elbow bent and arm twisted awkwardly, the skin at his wrist was an angry red, already beginning to welt. The fish sizzled in the pan, popping quietly.

“I’m hungry,” Joe moaned from the doorway. Patrick waved him off. “Feed me.” Joe slumped down at the table and grinned up at him, hair wet around his face from his shower, sunburn bright across his cheeks. His skin was pink from his throat all the way down to the checker-print of his boxers, squeaky clean and smelling like Irish Spring.

Sometimes, Patrick had to stop and look. He’d been with Joe so long that, sometimes, he forgot. He could still see Joe at sixteen with the ugliest bleach job in the history of bleach jobs, could see Joe at seventeen and eighteen filling out his skinny shoulders and chest. He could see Joe at twenty-one, trying out his first real beard. He wondered what Joe saw when he took stock.


	11. Geek Interpreter, John/Sherlock, PG-13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally for Sherlock Big Bang. Based off the Greek Interpreter, using details from the John Watson blog.

John hasn't slept in three days. His eyes feel dry, heavy, unable to focus. Every time he so much as thinks about grabbing a few hours kip, Sherlock is right next to him, prattling on about leads and dead bodies, dragging him across all creation. He's going to start having hallucinations soon.

"Stop grumbling about sleep and answer the door," Sherlock says from the sofa, waving a hand in John's direction. He's frowning at his phone, head lolled back, one arm dangling off the cushions. One day, soon, John's going to strangle him in a fit of sleepless fury. No one will say that Sherlock doesn't deserve it. 

"Yes?" John asks as he pulls open the door, voice gruff. He winces and clears his throat. "Sorry, yes? Can I help you?" There are three boys on the stairs, barely into their twenties. They shrink back, all hunching into each other. John sighs and closes his eyes, trying to collect himself. 

"We, ah, came to see Sherlock Holmes," the one in the middle says. He holds his hand out timidly, eyes flicking over John's shoulder. John shakes politely and offers a tight smile. "I'm Chris Melas. I called?"

"Right. Well. In this way." John holds open the door and tries not to mourn the loss of pending peace. 

Sherlock doesn't move from the couch as the boys enter. He's lost the phone, his arms splayed open and legs drawn up. He looks like a giant child, unimpressed by the parade of prospective clients. Polite host that his mother taught him to be, John brings chairs from the kitchen and sets them out, kicking Sherlock as he passes. He doesn't get paid enough for this.

"Tea?" He asks, even if it's the last thing on his mind. Thankfully, the boys shake their heads, squirming around one another. John sinks into his armchair and kicks at Sherlock again until he sits up. 

"Do," Sherlock says, finally standing, "tell me what you think deserves my time."

"We have this website," Chris says. His friends are around him like an army, worry written all over their faces. Chris looks like he hasn't slept either, eyes jerking from one side to another, hands twisted up in his lap. "It explains the true meaning of comic books, because people miss a lot of the themes."

John can see any interest fade away from Sherlock as he turns away, ready to have another sulk on the sofa. He'll be annoying for days, but maybe they can both catch up on their rest and recharge for the next bout of madness. Chris winces, reaches out like he can make Sherlock pay attention by will alone. 

"But then all the comic books started coming true," he blurts, leaning forward in his chair. 

"Oh," Sherlock says, pausing in his pace. John braces himself for a tirade, dropping his head into his palm. Poor kids never saw it coming. "Interesting."

"Wait, what?" John sits up, looking between Sherlock and the rumpled boys. "No, no, no, we are not looking into comic book characters come to life. "

"Well? I don't have all day." Sherlock flops back onto the sofa, hands spread. Dramatic bastard. "Tell us about your comic books."

"It's, well, it's called KRATIDES and it's about ninjas that fight crime," Chris says. He sits up, clearly energized by the thought of his work. Some of the pallor fades from his face. "It's all very political. Very satirical. You don't see a lot of thought going into the politics of heroes these days. People just want a bang 'em up a story. We're not like that-"

"I don't _care_ ," Sherlock says. Chris' friends shift nervously behind him. For the love of-

"Sit," John says, waving his hand at the free spaces on the couch. "This could be a bit." They don't move, too timid to settle down next to Sherlock. John can't says he blames them. Not when Sherlock's in a mood like this.

"Oh, yes you think you're terribly clever," Sherlock says, bored. "You've been reading ethics books and studying social structures to put into your little comic book. All of you still live with your mothers, even though you're making enough for a flatshare." He narrows his eyes, head tilting to the side. "No drugs, though."

"That's-" 

"Kind of insulting, but totally brilliant." The boy on the left of Chris comes forward and offers his hand to Sherlock to shake. He towers over Chris, skinny and lean, drowning in a button up shirt three sizes too big for him. He can’t be older than nineteen, all awkward angles and big ears. "I'm Scott, and he's Damien. We work on the comic with Chris." Sherlock stares blankly at him, ignoring his outstretched hand. After a moment, Scott coughs and steps back.

"I don't care much for politics," Sherlock says. "Tell me about the parts where your book came to life and what you want me to do about it."

"Well, last week I saw Sophy, just like I'd drawn her out at New Cross Station," Chris says. 

"Are you sure you didn't just, I don't know, think she looked familiar?" John asks. He doesn't _want_ to be rude, but he's about had it. He's been hearing crazy things all week, but superheroes is a bit much.

"Sophy's a wolf lady," Damien says quietly. He’s pink up to his violently orange hair, eyes half lidded like he’s almost asleep. "More wolf than lady, really."

"What, a werewolf was just having a ride for fun?" 

"She's not a werewolf," Chris snaps defensively. "She's a wolf lady. She has a tail and massive ears and a muzzle. You don't just see that every day."

"You haven't slept in days," Sherlock says. "Hallucinations are a sign of exhaustion. Do you have any actual proof, or are you just going to bore me with your sleep deprivation?" Sherlock frowns when John barks a laugh. He's going to show Sherlock sleep deprivation.

"Not of Sophy, no, but-" Chris fumbles his mobile out of his pocket, eyes going wide as he catches it. "But I did get these." He hands his phone to Sherlock, hands flopping back between his thighs. His friends keep looking at one another nervously.

John prods at Sherlock's arm until he hands the phone over, lips pressed together in thought. The phone is warm from Chris' pocket, scratched up, probably from being dropped. There's a series of six photographs pulled up that look like a flipbook when he scrolls through them. They're poor quality, but each one shows a man in a clean, crisp suit eating a yum yum. It's all very normal except for neon blueness of his skin.

"Just like page six of chapter four," Damien says, reaching for his backpack.

"You drew a comic about a man eating a doughnut?" John asks as he takes the book Damien is handing him

"Graphic novel," Chris corrects. "Even mutants get cravings for sweets." He snatches the book up, flipping through the pages fast enough that John fears they'll tear. "And here, this happened too. Right up on Wadsworth Common." He hands the book over again, finger tapping at the brightly printed page.

Sherlock is warm and quiet as he leans against John's shoulder, studying the scene. There's a man in ridiculous purple tights and an alarmingly green cape tackling a man in a striped jumper. He looks like a terrible stereotype of a mime without face paint, arms loaded down with purses. The man in purple shouts victoriously as he snatches the purses back, the page full of nonsensical sound words.

“That’s the Flying Bludgeon,” Scott says. “He’s like a cross between the Hulk and-” He cuts off when Chris elbows him in the stomach.

“I told you not to talk about that,” Chris hisses. “Remember?”

“Sorry,” Scott mumbles, scuffing his trainer on the floor. “I was just trying to help.” 

“Go,” Sherlock says, flipping back to the beginning of the book that John’s still holding. He’s heavy across John’s back, too warm. John doesn’t bother trying to shove him off. It’s a useless endeavor that will end with him on the floor.

“Don’t you want-”

“It’s a simple instruction,” Sherlock says. He turns a page, scanning over the scene with his fingertips. John can feel him frowning.

“Does this mean-”

“He’ll be in touch,” John says. He wiggles out of his chair, letting the comic take his place. “We’ll call if we have anything.” 

John sinks back against the closed door when they’re gone. Sherlock has taken over his chair, buried in the comic book. He can’t possibly be reading it, eyes moving too quickly over the pages to be taking anything in. If John goes around him quietly, he might be able to make it up the stairs to his room.

“It won’t work,” Sherlock says, eyes still trained on the book. He’s reached the end and is going back for a second read through. “Also, it’s insulting to your intelligence that you would think I wouldn’t notice.”

“I’m sleeping,” John announces. He locks the door and straightens himself out. He is a grown man. No one can tell him what to do. Not even Sherlock Holmes. 

“Two hours,” Sherlock says. He rips a page from the book and folds it into his pocket. John winces at the sound.

“Eig- I’m not arguing with you about this,” John says. He is an _adult_. “You should get some sleep, too. You’re going to pass out one of these days.”

"Three hours," Sherlock says, a note of finality to his voice. He tosses the book onto the table and sighs impatiently. "We have a lot of ground to cover. You're wasting time."

"I'm sorry my basic human needs are interfering with the psychological break of your clientele," John mutters as he passes, ignoring the way Sherlock wrinkles his nose. 

Once he’s upstairs, John flops onto his bed fully dressed. Sherlock will hold him to the second, and John can’t afford to spend any precious time on kicking his boots off. He nods off easily, head half buried under his pillows. Relief. Oh, sweet relief.

\---

John wakes up sweating. He jerks under the pile of blankets on top of him, foot catching on the edge of the mattress, eyes wide open but unseeing. The nightmares of war have mostly left him, turned once again into painful memories tucked away at the back of his mind, but others have replaced them. Dreams about being stolen off the street, dreams about the weight of a bomb against his chest and the off chance that Sherlock hadn’t been able to change things. He can still see Moriarty’s face plastered against the back of his eyelids, sharp and dangerous and ready to kill him at a second’s notice.

“He’ll run the city for you,” Jim had said, one hand on John’s cheek. “He’ll _kill_ for you. I just figure out how to flip that switch and-” He’d clapped his hands together in front of John’s face, the sound making John jerk against his restraints. “Goodbye London.”

John takes a deep breath and tries to worm out from beneath the blankets. His boots are gone, socks too, feet cool where they’re sticking out over the edge of the mattress. The quilts on top of him aren’t his, too stiff. Unused. They have to be Sherlock’s.

“You overslept,” Sherlock says. 

He goes down with a bang when John’s fist connects with his jaw. It takes John a moment to realize what he’s done, but once he does he’s on his feet, trying to help Sherlock up, cursing a blue streak.

“Sorry,” he says once they’ve untangled themselves from the floor. “It’s just a-”

“I shouldn’t have been that close when waking you,” Sherlock says, rubbing at the spot on his face that is already red. “At least not after a nightmare of that multitude.”

“How did you-”

“You were talking in your sleep,” Sherlock says. When he moves his hand away, there’s the start of a bruise. Serves him right, really, if not for this then for something else he’s done. “Sweating, shifting. War, I presume?” 

“Yeah,” John says nervously. He thinks of Moriarty’s face, the tick of the bomb in his ear, and feels his chest tighten. “Yes.”

“You’re useless to me like this,” Sherlock says, waving his hand at John’s rumpled, exhausted expression. The clock on the beside table reads well into morning. Sherlock had let him sleep all night, and, if John’s judging things correctly, is planning on letting him crawl back into bed. “Text me when you’ve woken up.”

“Thanks,” John says quietly, already pulling off his jumper and shirt. Sherlock grunts, already turning away.

“Try not to sleep all day,” he says, and then is gone, the click of the latch echoing behind him. 

John makes no promises.

\---

Night has fallen once again when John wakes up. He yawns, jaw cracking, and rubs at his eyes. He feels almost back to normal, the grumbling in his stomach the only thing of complaint. Sherlock is probably going to fuss at him for hours, but John can’t make himself care. He’s comfortable and well rested for the first time all week. 

There’s no sign of Sherlock in the flat when John finally stumbles down into the kitchen. He trips over a discarded beaker box on his way to the refrigerator, busting his knee against the kitchen table. It's not a good way to start his night. They're going to have to have another talk about keeping things off the floor. 

The door crashes open as John's taking the kettle off. Sherlock is all flying coat and soaking hair, face crinkled up in thought. John sighs and pulls two mugs from the cupboard. He'd been hoping that Sherlock had already solved the case.

"Are you done sleeping?" Sherlock asks, shrugging out of his coat. It leaves damp spots on the floor, a puddle forming slowly under the chair Sherlock's thrown it over.

"No," John answers dryly. "I'm making tea in my sleep." 

"Stranger things have been done," Sherlock says. There's a flattering curl of hair across his cheek, a drip of water at the point of his nose. Before he can think not to, John's reaching up to rub it away. Sherlock's expression doesn't change, but his shoulders go a bit tense. John clears his throat and takes a deliberate step back. 

"Anything on the case?" He asks, turning his attention to his mug. The puddle seems to be spreading, making the box next to it go dark and limp.

"I went to New Cross Station." Sherlock pushes his wet hair away from his face, slicking it back against his skull. He's got a small scar under his hairline. John's fingers itch to touch it. "Found a bit of hair near one of the platforms. It's animal, but it certainly isn't wolf. I'm testing it now to find its origin."

"And the Flying Beater or," John waves a hand, too annoyed to look for the right name, "the man in the tights. Anything about him?"

"There were no reports of muggings in the time frame given, but there was a call about a ruckus in the area."

"I take it you've ruled out the Tinkerbell Effect, then?" John asks, settling himself down at the table. There's an equation written out on the surface in chalk, something else they're going to have to talk about. 

"How quaint," Sherlock says. His shirt sticks to his back, his trousers muddied and dark. He takes the other mug without asking, long fingers linking around the ceramic. "Do you believe in Faeries, John?"

"It's a valid statement, given the circumstances." John doesn't miss the way Sherlock rolls his eyes. It's almost predictable, sometimes, the way Sherlock reacts to him. Surprisingly, John finds he doesn't mind.

"There were events," Sherlock says, ignoring him. "Evidence of a recent struggle at Wadsworth Commons, the hair at the station." His eyes have gone narrow, his thoughts flying by almost visibly. "But _why_?"

John drinks his tea slowly. He's just the skull here, barely awake enough to provide any sort of reasoning. He nodded and hums at the appropriate places, watching Sherlock pace across the floor. Normal people share toast and talk about the sounds the neighbors made in the middle of the night.

John's learning that he's long since left the world of normal people.

When his cup is empty, John reaches for his laptop. He isn’t surprised to find it already unlocked. Really, he should just stop bothering with the passcode, but some part of him enjoys the idle amusement of Sherlock’s analysis of his choices. He switches the security from midsummer to banana. Sherlock can figure that out, pseudo-psychology and all. 

There’s two emails in his inbox. One is from Harry, detailing the goings on of her life. It’s full of bad spelling and worse grammar, but John still smiles his way through it. They’re not quite on speaking terms, but emailing soothes the way between them. Maybe, one day, they’ll be able to be in the same room without imploding. It’s a thing to hold hope out for.

The second one is from Chris, all jargon and jumbled thoughts. John sloughs through it, frowning. Apparently, Chris has seen them all again. There’s a grainy photograph attached, clearly taken at night. The three figures in it are shadowed, but John can make out the wolfy features of the woman’s face, can see the blue tint to the man in the middle’s skin. They’re on top of a roof, balanced on the ledge. Also attached is a page of the comic, a panel circled in red. 

_It’s exactly the same_ , Chris writes. _I’ve shown it to everyone, and they just don’t get it. They think I’ve been doing this in Photoshop. A few people on the forum even think I set up some actors. Kemp believes me. Kemp knows. Kemp believes._

“This kid is cracked,” John mutters, clicking on the links at the bottom of the email. “Sherlock, Chris has-”

“Yes, yes, yes, I _know_ ,” Sherlock says, waving his hand. His trousers are rumpled, hair wilder than usual. No nicotine patches, though. That has to speak for something. “He’s plastered his bloody _social networking_ sites with his babble. What’s social about writing about lunch on the internet?”

“I don’t think-”

“It’s just so-”

“Boring,” John finishes, sighing. “Some people do like to keep in touch with family and friends outside of life or death situations.” John waits a beat and then repeats himself. “Boring, right, I know.”

“And yet you still continue to point out the obvious,” Sherlock says. He pauses in the middle of the floor, slipping a little on the puddle of rainwater. John reaches out absently to steady him, hand skating across his damp shirt. Sherlock doesn’t pull away. John doesn’t think about it. “The possibilities as I see them are that KRATIDES is a real organization, started by vigilantes or imbeciles with too much time on their hands-”

“You have got to be kidding me,” John says, shoving Sherlock away from him. He closes his laptop, stomach grumbling again. He could go for some Chinese.

“Or he’s been drugged and influenced by his own comic,” Sherlock says, barreling over him. “But that has already been ruled out by the photographic evidence.” There’s irritation in his voice, sadness at the loss of excuse to play with the equipment at Bart’s. 

“Or?” John asks, reaching for the nearest clump of menus. 

“Or,” Sherlock says slowly, epiphany face on, “someone is doing this for him.”

“Wait, what?” John looks up from the poorly photographed pad thai, head already aching. All he wants is dinner and maybe a quick run with BBC1. “He’s gone completely around the bend. How is this a thing someone would want to do _for_ him?”

“I have an idea,” Sherlock says, up and gone before John can ask about it. 

John orders double amounts of ginger chicken in. He doesn’t see any food after this in his future.

\---

John Watson has never been to a comic shop in his life. He’d enjoyed reading a bit when he was young, but once he’d realized he could run and jump and tackle for profit, he’d turned himself over to sports and never really looked back. Sherlock had made fun of him for it, calling him barbaric whenever John asked him to join in on a game of rugby, but John had seen the curiosity in the curve of his mouth. Sherlock isn’t the only one who’s good at reading people.

There’s a sign tacked up in the window with the cover of KRADITES in the middle. John takes a breath and steps inside. The shop is bright, primary colors everywhere, crowded in with teenagers. John smiles tightly at the group nearest the door, shuffling through the rows of tables uneasily.

He recognizes a few of the titles, knows Superman and Spiderman and Batman through pop culture, but most of it means nothing to him. There’s a display of action figures that nearly reaches the ceiling, not a single one of them labeled, though John does recognize a poorly rendered Dr. Davenport.

Chris and his assistants are in the middle of the crowd, signing books and posing for photographs. John watches them curiously, stood back from the queue. There's dark patches under Chris' eyes, sunk low into his skin, jitters in his hands and legs. He looks manic.

"John," Darren says, waving him up past the crowd. He looks better than he had at the flat earlier, less anxiety ridden. "Glad you could make it."

"I didn't realize your comic was so popular," John says, sidestepping an excited young girl. Darren glances at Chris and Scott, eyes narrowed. John steps closer.

"The thing is," Darren says, low, mouth near to John's ear, "is that it's not." John looks at the unending queue and raises an eyebrow. Looks plenty packed to him. "Before Chris cracked, we only sold twenty copies. The book's been out nearly a year. In the last week, we've raised sales over two thousand percent."

"So you think he really has cracked?" John asks. Though he tries to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, Darren's stern look tells him he's failed. 

"I've known him my whole life," Darren says. He sounds sad, even as he smiles and waves at a fan. "He's always been a little lofty but- he's not mad. Wasn't, anyway. Not until all this.".

"Do you know who Kemp is?" John asks, uncomfortable with the boy's sadness. He's seen people close to him lose it before, knows the pain that Darren must have boiling under his skin.

"He's on the forum," Darren says. "He showed up a month ago. He's been encouraging Chris to tell the world about KRAITES, like it isn't just a graphic novel. That's all I really know." He runs a hand through his hair, shrugging his skinny shoulders. "Your man, Holmes. Will he be able to fix this up?"

"We haven't missed a case yet," John says. "Don't plan on it now. Excuse me.”

John waits patiently for Chris to finish with the fan at the table. He’s talking animatedly about his run-ins with his creations, his shaking hands flailing about. Apparently, he’s seen ninjas also, sly black forms in the shadows following him around. John looks over his shoulder warily. Darren and Scott don’t quite meet his eyes.

“Chris, a word?” John motions to the cleared out area in the back, aware of the angry eyes of the next fan in the queue. Chris nods, apologizing as he backs away. Timidly, Scott takes his place.

“Have you seen them?” Chris asks, eyes wide. “If they’re running on the same schedule, something big will be happening tonight. They’ll be coming.”

“I haven’t seen anyone,” John says. He stands himself straight, not quite to the height of the boy, and very calmly orders him to stop moving. “What’s supposed to happen tonight?” Chris runs his hands through his greasy hair, taking a deep breath.

“On page eighty-four, KRAIDTES breaks up a drug ring,” he says. Someone in the queue shouts for him, their voice echoed by a few others. “There’s a shooting. Sophy accidentally mauls a hostage. Didn’t you read the book?” John winces.

“Of course,” he lies, coughing into his fist. “Just a bit bad with timelines is all. Where did you say this was again?” 

“Royal Albert docks,” Chris says. “Grimes, the drug lord, takes the hostage onto his boat. KRAITES catches them up and-”

“Kills your hostage,” John finishes. There’s no way to be quite sure that anything is going to happen, but John knows that he’s going to be playing lookout all night regardless. The queue has grown restless, loud. Hostile. “Thank you for your time. Try to get some rest tonight. We’ll take care of the situation.”

“Be careful,” Chris warns. He touches the arm of John’s shirt, the coldness of his skin seeping past the material. “Grimes is crazy. Totally crazy. If anything I wrote gets you or someone else hurt-”

“I’ll be fine.” John thinks about the gun in his drawer and sighs. He’s been trying to keep it at home, nervous about the constant police presence. Guilty, maybe. “Get some rest.”

There’s a cheer when Chris returns to his seat. Behind him, Darren and Scott are texting furiously. If Sherlock were here, he’d probably know down to the detail what they were up to. They don’t seem like the traitorous type, but one can never really be too sure. John pulls out his mobile and dials Sherlock. He’s surprised when he isn’t sent directly to voicemail.

“What is it?” Sherlock asks gruffly.

“Apparently there’s a drugs bust on the way,” John says. He smiles tightly at a woman in passing, head already aching. 

“I haven’t _got_ anything-”

“Not- In the comic,” John clarifies. Above him, the sky is grey and dark. A storm soon. Lovely. A damp night at the docks is exactly what his immune system needs. “Some time tonight at Royal Albert docks. A hostage dies. Do you have any leads?”

“A few,” Sherlock answers curtly. Something clatters around him. John hopes he’s not at home. He’s not really in the mood to clean up potentially hazardous spills. “I’ve got someone looking into Kemp.” Another bang. The sound of traffic.

“What are you doing?”

“Solving a mystery,” Sherlock says. It’s infuriating, and yet John still finds himself huffing out a laugh. “I’ll meet you at the docks in a few hours. Try not to-”

John misses the end of the sentence. Pain shudders down his spine, crippling him. He sees his mobile drop to the sidewalk, sees a blue hand come up to his face, and then sees nothing but black.

\---

“Love,” Jim had said, voice stretched out thin and long. “It’s a funny thing, isn’t it?” John had bit down on his gag, tried to swallow against the dryness in his mouth. “The silly things people do for _love_. It’s pathetic, don’t you think?” 

The sound his shoes had made against the concrete echoed like gunshots as he paced. John could smell his own sweat, feel it pressed tight against his skin, weighed down by the bomb. The piece in his ear was too big, stretched at his ear canal painfully. Every word Moriarty spoke came in like a loop, words overlapping.

“For example,” Jim carried on, waving a hand at John’s chest. “Any _normal_ person would leave you here to explode. Bitty pieces of poor Dr. Watson all over the place. So sad.” John winced when Moriarty stopped in front of him, one hand to the sore line of his jaw. “But not Sherlock. No, not Sherlock at all. He’ll come running to save you.” He tapped John’s cheek with his thumb nail, dragging it across John’s stubble. “He’ll run the city for you. He’ll _kill_ for you. I just figure out how to flip that switch and-”

\---

John jerks awake with a muffled shout. There’s something jammed into his mouth, sticking to his tongue and making his lips ache. He can feel the swollen bits of his head where he’d been hit. His heart jackrabbits. Not again. No, no, _not again_. Please, god, no.

When he can finally open his eyes, John makes himself look around. He’s at a dock, the sound of the Thames barely distinguishable from the rush of blood in his ears. He can feel the breeze off the river, the rain dripping off into the cup of his hands. He’s where he’s supposed to be, but it’s wrong-

“Hello, Dr. Watson,” a man says from behind him. “I wondered when you would wake up.” The voice is unfamiliar, deep. Not Moriarty. John tries to even his breathing out, tries to shove the panic rising up his throat away. “I’m sorry we had to meet like this but, well. You seem too involved in our going-ons. How unfortunate for you.”

Grimes. It has to be. John relaxes his shoulders. He is a man of the military. He has faced death more than once, and he has escaped. He will escape again. It will just take patience and thought. Deduction.

Over the water, a small boat is speeding toward them, spitting water up against its sides. John can’t make out a single one of the passengers, but he knows without a doubt that it’s KRATIES. He’s become the doomed hostage. 

“It seems we have company,” Grimes says. “Pity. I was enjoying our chat.” 

John doesn’t struggle when Grimes hauls him to unsteady feet, doesn’t move at all when he’s dragged to a speedboat off the dock. Grimes is a tall man, but nothing about his physiques says he works out regularly, or does menial labor. He struggles a little with John’s weight. If John gets his bearings back together, he can probably overpower him. 

The smell of the river and the downpour of rain shake some of the grogginess from John’s body. Pain shoots up his spine when Grimes throws him against the back, his shoulder catching on the sidewall of the seat. Water soaks into his jeans and shoes, seeps into his skin. John wiggles until he can sit up and see his surroundings. 

There is no name on the boat. Grimes isn’t used to the controls. It’s a rental. Or stolen. John tries the rope binding his hands together. The hold is strong, but if he lets the rope get wet enough, he should be able to unwork it. 

“The problem with crime is that no one really appreciates what you do,” Grimes says. His face is narrow and pinched, eyes far off like he’s trying to remember something. “All I want is to make people happy. That’s not so much to ask, is it?”

The other boat is following behind them, slow but gaining speed. When John squints, he can see the shape of Sophy’s ears and muzzle. John takes another slow breath. A splash of water catches him in the face when Grimes turns the boat sharply. 

“These assholes, they think they’ve got the answers,” Grimes continues. “For them, it’s all black and white. Fra- The Flying Bludgeon, he’s an addict just like everyone else.”John narrows his eyes and tries to pay closer attention. If he were Sherlock, he’d already have everything figured out. If he were Sherlock, he’d probably gotten himself killed already. “It’s all a matter of opinion. Mine versus theirs. Theirs versus the world.”

John tries the rope again. It slips against itself, just wet enough to be pliable. Whoever Grimes is, he hadn’t planned on rain. He hadn’t been prepared. It wasn’t in his script. Carefully, ignoring the throbbing in his shoulder, John twists his wrists together. The fibers peel against his skin, coarse and tight, rub him raw. He bites down on his gag to muffle the growing roughness of his breath.

“They’re villains just as much as I am,” Grimes says. He hasn’t looked back once, even to see how close KRADTIES has gotten. Something is incredibly off about the entire thing. “One day, the world will see. One day, they’ll know.”

KRADTIES boat crashes into theirs. It’s enough of a jolt to help John free his arms. The boat jerks to the side as Grimes is thrown away from the controls. It’s too small for the team to board. Someone steps on John’s ankle, grinds him into the floor. John pants into his gag, trying to keep himself low to the ground. 

There’s a flurry of activity. Davenport and the Flying Bludgeon are twice as large as Grimes, but their movements are clumsy, unpracticed. John scoots towards the lip of the boat. His ankle is throbbing, but if he 

[BLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH]

 

\---

“He’ll run the city for you. He’ll _kill_ for you. I just figure out how to flip that switch and- Goodbye, London. It will _destroy_ him. You, you little bastard, are going to break his heart when you die, and I am going to _love it_.”

\---

“Kemp was working for the publishing house,” Sherlock says. There’s blue paint on his hands, a smudge of it on his face. He’s still wearing his waterlogged jacket, hair drying into a wretched mess on the top of his head.


	12. Dance With Me, Merlin/Arthur, PG

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dirty dancing AU. Merlin works at Albion, a retreat for stressed wealthy families, and Arthur is the son of stressed politician Uther Pendragon.

Merlin was running late. Hopelessly, hopelessly late.

He ran across the yard, leaping over the sprinklers as they began their mid-day cycle. The music from the main hall was loud, even this far out, and he knew then, without a doubt, that he was never going to hear the end of it from Gaius. Not there was ever an end to begin with. As he scampered up the stairs into the hall, he slid on his damp pants and careened into one of the waitstaff boys.

The boy grabbed him by both shoulders and steadied him, stepping back as he took in the shock of Merlin’s weight. Thankfully, his hands had been empty.

“For a dancer, you’re pretty graceless,” he said, only half joking. His tuxedo was creased where Merlin had grabbed on. Merlin patted at it uselessly. “Go on, get. Gwen’s been stalling for you.”

Sure enough, in the middle of the floor, Gwen was leading an old, grey man around the room in a painfully boring step. He was delighted, though, his wrinkled face stretched wide with his smile, his eyes on Gwen’s face. If Merlin didn’t know any better, he could say she was having a good time as well. The bored gloss over her eyes was a good tell, though.

Merlin dipped in past the ring of guests and scooped up a pretty young woman who laughed as he doubled Gwen’s tempo. Even without knowing the steps, the girl glided around with him in a swirl of expensive dress and even more expensive perfume. 

“You’re late,” Gwen mouthed as she passed them. She raised her eyebrows, her smile unfaltering. Merlin spun his partner and waited for them to pass again.

“I overslept,” he mouthed back. Gwen rolled her eyes. How she dealt with him, he would never know.

As the music switched over, Merlin slid away from the young woman, kissing her hand as he went. She tittered cheerfully, her face pink and bright. If he played his cards right, he could probably charm her into signing up for classes. Gwen, who was giving the old man a peck on the cheek, already seemed to have a small following. 

Gaius shook his head, frowning at him from the front of the room. Merlin shrugged and took up his place at Gwen’s side. He had been up all night getting the dance studio ready for the wave of new guests. It wasn’t his fault that the lodge opened so early.

“Welcome,” Gaius said, warm and cheerful and boisterous. “It is a pleasure to have you all.” Merlin stared at him, like he was supposed to, and let his mind wander. There was no counting the number of times he had heard the opening day speeches. 

“If you weren’t his favorite, he’d have fired you by now,” Gwen whispered, turning her head just far enough in that Merlin could hear her. Her hair, curled and gathered at the nape of her neck, brushed against Merlin’s shoulder. 

“I didn’t mean it,” he answered, hunching down to match her height. Even in heels she was no match for him. He hoped that the growing had stopped, but at his gawky seventeen, there was no telling. 

“You never do.” Gwen squeezed his bicep. “Just know, I expect every last bit of my feet to be rubbed when we get home.” She tapped his ankle with the tapered end of her heel pointedly. Merlin grinned at her.

“Of course,” he said. 

As Gaius continued the welcoming day speech, Merlin looked over the crowd of guests. Most of them were standing on the dancefloor, clapping after every second sentence. In the back, someone was sulking in the corner, hand wrapped around a glass. He didn’t look familiar, but he did look out of place.

“Who’s that?” Merlin asked Gwen, nodding in the man’s direction.

“Arthur Pendragon,” 

[Blah, blah, more details.]

 

\----

Summer was the worst time of year. Arthur stared out of the cabin window, chin propped on his hand. He was too old to keep going along with his father’s half hearted family outings. They would spend dinners together, and maybe attempt a few pathetic conversations between activities. 

It wasn’t that his father didn’t love him and Morgana. He did, in his own way, but the charade of a happy family had grown old.


	13. Forks is for Suckers, Scott/Stiles, Lydia/Allison, PG-13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meant for Teen Wolf Big Bang. Twilight AU!

Stiles won't say that he hates Beacon Hills, but that doesn't mean that it isn't true. It's not the town's fault that it's kind of nowhere, or that there's a ratio of sixteen trees per person, or that he's already run a cat over in his Jeep. But, he's just saying that, back in Chicago, none of this shit happened.

His dad looks happy when he heads off to work at ass o'clock in the morning, which is something at least. Stiles hasn't been to sleep yet, too busy smashing buttons in a life-or-death war against the Covenant. There isn't any food in the fridge, or any takeout menus in the kitchen drawer yet, which means he's going to have to venture out soon enough. 

After a nap, maybe. A nice, long nap on his shitty, barely put together mattress. He's slept on worse. A few hours on the floor are totally better than the last few days of sleeping in the truck.

By the time he wakes up, his dad has come and gone again. There's some cash on the kitchen counter and a note about being called back for a missing persons report. Stiles winces as he pockets the cash.

"Beacon Hills 0, Chicago 683," he says, sighing.

He knows why they moved. He's not an idiot. Even though Chicago was home, there were too many memories there to deal with. Everything was just a light reminding him and his dad that his mom was gone, shoving it into the broken places of them like salt. The bathroom smelled like her perfume, and the living room was full of her kitschy knick-knacks. They just couldn't do it anymore. It doesn’t really mean that much when he has to brave the cold to find lunch. Isn’t California supposed to be hot all the time? Wasn’t that part of the appeal his dad had listed for him? 

The grocery store is a half empty little place that leaves a lot to be desired. Stiles wanders through the aisles, soaking up the sweet, sweet heat. His dad won’t be home for a big dinner, but he’s not really in the mood for anything frozen either. If he knew where the closest Taco Bell was, he’d be all over it. Instead, he reluctantly grabs a bag of pizza rolls. 

His dad had signed him up for the lacrosse team in hopes of getting him to meet new people. There's practice tomorrow in the gym, a sad indoor fall league to while away the time with until the actual season starts. As much as Stiles honestly enjoys burning off his spare energy, he'd rather be playing football. That, at least, he has a basic handle on.

He rings up his pizza rolls and a sad pack of breakfast burritos for tomorrow. His dad hadn't really left him enough to do any actual grocery shopping, and he isn't going to dip into his savings to spring for anything else. 

Just past the parking lot is a path that leads into the woods. It's like living a fucking wildlife movie, all creepy animal eyes and overgrown underbrush. There's so much of it everywhere, trees like a fence for the town. It's weird and rustic, more like living in the country than California. Stiles had always pictured more glamour. More desert. 

Beacon Hills isn't anything like what he had pictured at all.

\---

So, Stiles is shit at lacrosse.

He scuffs his feet against the floor, listening to the squeak of his shoes against the hardwood. The coach had let him play for ten minutes and then promptly benched him. He's not looking forward to the rest of the season. He's restrung his crosse three times, trying to look eager and ready to play. Currently, the sidewall string in stuffed halfway into his mouth, mesh smooth against his tongue.

"Welcome to the bench brigade." The guy that's been sitting next to him holds out an awkward hand. "I'm Scott. You'll be seeing a lot of me."

"Stiles," he says around the string. They shake, which is kind of weird, and Scott smiles at him. "So, there's no chance of us playing at all?"

"Not unless Jackson breaks a leg," Scott admits, shrugging. Stiles had met Jackson before practice. It hadn't been all that pleasant. "It's cool. We hang and Coach only yells at us some."

"Awesome." Stiles spits the mesh out and watches Jackson shoot a goal. "Your dad make you play, too?" Scott shrugs again, but it's tighter.

"My dad's not really around." Scott taps his crosse against the ground. Stiles winces. Well, he'll. He's off to a good start on making friends.

"Sorry, man." Stiles knows how this conversation goes. 

He knows the way people suddenly pity you when you're the product of a one parent household, like suddenly you're not normal. So he just lets it pass. It's what he always wants. They bullshit while the rest of the team practices. It's the first time Stiles hasn't felt completely at a loss in Beacon Hills.

"Lydia's having a party tomorrow night," Scott says as the team finally staggers off to the locker room. Stiles still smells as fresh as a freaking daisy. "The whole team is invited."

"People do that?" Stiles asks, before his brain can catch up to his mouth. At least he managed to keep the _here_ out of the question. Smooth moves, Stiles. "Do the whole high school party cliche thing?" Scott tilts his head to the side. He looks kind of like a puppy.

"Have you ever watched Mean Girls?" Scott asks, totally non-sequitur. Stiles blinks and nods slowly. "Lydia is like Regina George without the crazy." There's a pause before he adds, "And hotter."

Stiles is always down for a hot chick. He jots down Lydia's address on the inside of his arm with a crusty, half broken pen that Scott pulls from his locker. Half the letters are smeared, but he figures if he drives around enough he'll be able to spot the cars. One thing a small town is good for, at least. 

Scott walks him to his jeep, crosse slung over his back. Stiles is a little reluctant to leave, but asking to hang out this soon is probably weird. He's good at weird. Even better at awkward. Best to suppress his usual instincts.Maybe he can be a Cool Guy here. He's never been a Cool Guy.

"So, Lydia's tomorrow?" Scott asks, scratching a hand through his messy hair. Stiles shrugs as he slips into the driver's seat, trying to pull off cool as well as he can in his jeep.

"Sure," he says. For once, the engine doesn't sound like a monster when he turns the key in the ignition. Even his baby knows that the act is on. "Why not?" 

Scott grins and pats the jeep on his way out. Stiles plays the local station on his way home ans sings along, the window down to let the autumn air in. Beacon Hills will never be home, but he can totally make this work. 

\---

Lydia, is in fact, super hot. And so is Allison, her very attached girlfriend. Stiles blinks at them from his station next to the pool, his plastic cup of jungle juice tilting sideways out of his hand. Beside him, Scott makes a gurgling sound.

"You didn't tell me there were lesbians," Stiles accuses when he can find his voice. Allison's hand is _this close_ to Lydia's bikini top. Stiles is trying to move it with the power of his mind.

"Some things have to be seen to be appreciated," Scott mumbles back. "Do you appreciate?"

"Like I have never appreciated anything before." Stiles takes a slow drink of his juice to kill the sudden dry mouth. It burns with too much alcohol, but Stiles shakes it off and goes for another.

The backyard is packed with his brand new classmates. A couple wave at him not bothering to hide their curious glances. He bets they've all known each other since kindergarten. Daycare, maybe. It's weird to think of it like that. He'd always moved a lot. There was no such thing as a life long friend for him. 

He's filling up his cup for the third time when his phone buzzes in his pocket. It's a text from his dad, telling him to lock up when he gets home and to take the long way around. Something- dead body, Stiles fills in, used to his dad's not-really-code words- was found in the woods. Stiles perks up. California has interesting bits too. Sweet. 

"How well do you know the woods?" Stiles asks Scott when he manages to trip back to the other side of the pool. He's feeling loose-limbed and warm, smiling without thinking about it. 

"Pretty okay," Scott answers. His shirt is damp from water splashed up from the pool, hair kind of wonky from putting wobbly, drunk fingers through it.

"Want to go on a field trip?" Stiles asks. He probably shouldn't drive out, but there's more woods than town anyway, and he doesn't really expect to find anything interesting. But-

"We need coats," Scott says decisively. With a determined nod, Stiles tries to remember where in Lydia's sprawling house they had tossed their crap.

There's two false starts, and one very painful crash to the bathroom floor before they make it outside. The air is cold, but they're alcohol warm, and Stiles is almost bouncing with the excitement of the hunt.

"So," Scott says ten minutes later. They're climbing the slick, frosty hills between the trees half crouched to maintain balance. Stiles moves a half beat faster and keeps crashing into Scott's legs. "What are we doing?"

"Dead body," Stiles answers gleefully. Perhaps too gleefully, if the way Scott looks back over his shoulder says anything. "My dad's a cop. I swear I'm not a murder."

"That isn't super encouraging, dude," Scott says, but keeps climbing. He sounds a little wheezy, breath puffing out with a little hiss at the end.

"You okay?" Stiles asks. He might not be a murderer, but Scott could be. Those could be his puffy, wheezy death breaths. Stiles' dad will be _so pissed_ if his son's only friend is a serial killer.

"Asthma," Scott coughs out. He fumbles in his pocket for a moment before pulling out a battered inhaler.

Something cracks in the distance. Stiles jerks, foot slipping on the frost. He's barely gotten his balance back when he's suddenly in the air. Flying. Well- bouncing is actually the right word. There's something hard and kind of painful digging into his stomach, right below his ribcage, stealing his breath away. Before he can complain to whatever is holding onto him, he sees a stampede of deer crush the place where he had been laying. 

"Oh my god," he pants out, still bouncing down the path. "Oh my god."

There's a thump and then he's half on the ground and half on Scott, and the mysterious bouncing castle that had carried _both_ of them there bolts before Stiles can ask any questions. His stomach hurts when he rubs at it through his coat, like he's been sucker punched a few times. Beside him, Scott has his mouth on his inhaler, eyes squeezed shut. 

"What," he begins very slowly, breath wheezing out, "was that?"

"Our cue to exit the woods very slowly?" Stiles helps Scott up, bitching about the pain that's winding its way up his body. When he's back on his feet, Scott lifts his shirt to show off his very own stomach sized wound.

"So," Stiles says, following Scott's limping lead back to the road, "it doesn't make me less of a man to say you should stay over tonight, does it?"

"I won't call you out on it if you don't call me out on it," Scott answers.

"Deal."

They make it back before Stiles' dad. Which, in retrospect, is probably the best thing for them because they look like they've gone a round or two with a hoard of trees. Scott has leaves in his hair. Stiles has leaves _in his pants_ , scraping up against his skin uncomfortably every time he moves.

"Shower's the last door on the right," Stiles says, waving a hand down the dark hall. He doesn't judge Scott for flipping on all the lights as he goes.


	14. Push and Hold, Pete/Patrick, NC-17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a companion piece to [Pull Hard and Make a Wish](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4742654) told from Patrick's POV.

Patrick's hand is up Anna's shirt.

Her skin is soft and warm under his fingers, her shirt stretched tight over his arm. She smells like vanilla, clean, her short hair tickling his nose. Patrick's throat is dry. He'd never thought they'd actually ever get here.

Anna moves under him, presses her chest into his hand. There's lace trim around her bra that catches on Patrick's calluses. He can feel her nipple through the thin fabric, peaked, and it kind of freaks him out, even as she breathes out a soft sound into his ear.

Patrick kisses her. Kissing is familiar. He likes kissing her. She's soft and gentle and tastes kind of like cinnamon, and Patrick could probably make out the shape of her mouth in his sleep.

They've been together for a year. Anna wanted guitar lessons and Patrick needed cash, and three weeks in she'd stopped paying and he'd stopped charging. It's been- good. It's been really good.

"Patrick," Anna gasps, tilting away from Patrick's mouth. This close and without his glasses, all Patrick can see is the flutter of her eyelashes, the line of her jaw. “Do you want to-"

"I don't-" Patrick's hand freezes on Anna's breast. He can feel every inch of her under him, can feel the warmth between her legs where she's been pressing up against his thigh. "I'm-"

"I'm ready," she says. Her face is pink, the sweat at her hairline making it dark. "I want it to be you." Patrick closes his eyes. Oh, God. He's not ready for this. 

He slides his hand back when he can move again, skin going cold, and sits back on his heels. When Anna pushes herself up onto her elbows, head cocked to the side, Patrick feels something in him just. Slip away.

"Patrick?" Anna asks again. She sounds hurt.

Patrick runs a hand through his hair, chest going tight. He's soft in his jeans. That's not right. Anna's a beautiful girl that he might love. He should be turned on. He should be thrilled to lose his virginity with her. Happy. Instead, there's a thin crack of panic running up his insides, threatening to overwhelm him.

"I can't," he says, swallowing around the dryness of his throat. "I'm sorry. I just. Can't."

Patrick climbs off of her and reaches for his shoes. He's got a biology test in the morning and a giant pile of homework on his desk, and a panic attack waiting to happen. He just needs to be somewhere else right now. He just needs to get his head straight and figure out what to say to Anna when he eventually begs her for forgiveness.

"We're done, aren't we?" Anna asks. She sounds sad, but unsurprised. Patrick feels his heart sink in his chest.

"I love you, you know " he says. It sounds hollow, but he means it. There's the ghost of a touch on his back, and then the bed shifts.

"I know."

"Can we-"

"Yeah," Anna says softly. He doesn't have to look to know that she's curled up against the wall, knees up against her tiny chest. "I just. Might need some time."

"I'm sorry," Patrick says again. This isn't how he planned his day.

Very carefully, Patrick stands. He stuffs his feet into his shoes, heels squashing the broken backs down farther, collects his backpack, and leans down to kiss Anna on the cheek. Her skin is damp, but she'll never admit she's crying. Patrick's heart gives a painful, pathetic little thud.

The walk home takes forever. Patrick drags his feet the whole way, staring down at the sidewalk. He'd really thought he and Anna were going to last. He'd really thought- Something. She'd made him feel like he wasn't just a space waster. Like he could take on the world as long as she was at his side.

Dinner is on the table when Patrick gets home. He smells it before he walks in the front door. It makes his stomach hurt. He's not hungry, but his mom won't let him skip family time. He sets his backpack down in the living room and pastes on a smile. He really just wants to sleep for a while.

His mom's already in the dining room, hair tied back and sleeves rolled up. She opens her mouth- probably to tell him to wash up, or scold him for being late- but she pauses, silent, when she looks up at him. Patrick lets his stupid fake smile drop.

"What's wrong?" His mom asks. She's already reaching for him.

Patrick hasn't really hugged his mom in a long time. She's still taller than he is, and from where his head is pressed against her shoulder, he can smell the familiar sweetness of her perfume. He doesn't hug her back, but her arms tight around him feel safe. Secure.

"Anna and I broke up," he mumbles. Maybe if he just says it out loud a few times it'll stop hurting.

"Oh, honey." Patrick's mom hugs him tighter. He's glad that she doesn't tell him it'll be okay. 

\---

Patrick spends the weekend with his computer, remixing his favorite songs sullenly. His mom keeps him in a steady supply of cookies and meatloaf, dropping subtle hints about him maybe going outside. Patrick nibbles his cookies and stares at his Mac morosely. He’s never going outside again. 

There's a half finished demo on his desktop that he hasn't had the heart to work on. It had been intended to be a birthday present for Anna, but he feels like it probably wouldn't go over well now. Part of him wants to trash it. The rest of him can't get over all the work he's put into it.

Sunday night he puts it on repeat and curls up in his bed. His hair is greasy against his cheek, his shirt gross. He's pathetic. There's something wrong with him to have let this get so out of control.

He calls Anna at nine. The phone goes to voicemail automatically. It stings. He listens to Anna's voice with his eyes closed, chest aching. At the end, he can hear himself laughing in the background. He doesn't leave a message.

"This is pathetic," Kevin says, leaning against Patrick's door.

"Go away," Patrick says. He whines when Kevin grabs his arm, dragging him off the bed.

"Dude, I can't let you do this." Kevin frog marches him to the bathroom, manhandling him into the shower. Patrick yelps when the cold water hits him. "You're going to make yourself presentable to people and then you're coming out with me."

"Let me go," Patrick shouts, trying desperately to jerk out of Kevin's hold. He slips on the porcelain, falling further into Kevin's grasp.

"I'm doing this for you," Kevin says, jamming Patrick's head under the spray. He shoves a shampoo bottle into Patrick's hand and lets him go. "Be ready in a half hour. I'll take you out of this house naked if I have to." He smacks the back of Patrick's head before he leaves the bathroom. Patrick hates him.

Still, he kicks his wet boxers off and peels his shirt off. He scrubs halfheartedly at his hair, staring at the drain. He doesn't want to go out. He wants to mope in his room and maybe call Anna again. It's not like it's too much to ask for.

Kevin drags him out of his bedroom exactly a half hour later. Patrick pulls his cap over his forehead and sulks to the car. He doesn't ask where they're going because he doesn't care. Kevin spends a lot of the drive rolling his eyes.

They end up at a house party. Patrick can hear the music from outside, can feel it in the ground when he steps out of the car. This isn't really what he was expecting. 

"Try to enjoy yourself," Kevin says as they walk up to the door. He shoves Patrick inside first. "Go geek out at the band. I know you want to."

Patrick wants to sulk, but it's true.

The house is filled with people Patrick kind of sort of recognizes. He waves at a few, smiling tightly when he's addressed. He's never really been a party person. It's too tight. Too much about hormones and not enough about anything interesting. Still, from inside he can hear the band clearly and recognizes them.

They're set up in the dining room, blocked off by a makeshift barrier of rolled up sheets and chairs. Patrick's seen Arma Angelus before, but never up close like this. He shoves himself into a corner, away from the small crowd that's dancing in the middle of the room, and watches.

He's jealous. There's no way he can even pretend he isn't. Every band he's cobbled together or joined with has been walking disaster; kids fucking around in their parents' garages and desperate boys hoping to impress sad girls. Patrick has so many ideas, so much music he wants to make. It burns that no matter how hard he works he gets left with nothing.

Kevin checks on him periodically, handing him punch and rubbing Patrick's head through his hat. It's annoying but comforting. Patrick stays in his corner, even as the room fills out more, watching fingers on strings and hands around sticks. He knows each one of them from the scene, has heard their names at shows and practices.

Pete Wentz is a lot smaller when he isn't on a stage, Patrick thinks.

The room goes from comfortable to sweltering in gradual increases. Patrick shrugs his hoodie off and tosses it awkwardly over his shoulder. Part of him wants to duck outside to cool down, but the rest of him is too busy watching the band to care. He's still debating when Kevin pops up next to him, dragging a freshman along with him.

"Patrick, this is Janet," Kevin says, leading her forward with a hand on her back. Patrick tries not to panic. Any goodwill that had been restored for Kevin is now long gone. "Janet, this is my little brother. I think you guys'll get along."

"Hi," Janet says, voice barely audible over the music.

"Hi," Patrick says back weakly. He feels cornered. "I uh. Was going to head outside. If you'll just-"

"Kevin's told me a lot about you." Janet smiles at him, tilting her head. When she steps closer, Patrick steps back. "He said you're getting over a breakup."

"Yeah," Patrick says, chest aching dully at the reminder. He'd almost forgotten. "I. Yeah."

"I could help you," Janet says. Patrick wonders what Kevin bribed her with. He can almost hear him telling some impressionable girl to _help_ his baby brother out. It makes him feel equal parts embarrassed and angry.

"I'll be alright." Patrick backs into the wall, hands shoved into his pockets.

Janet smiles again, one hand lifting up to rest on Patrick's hip. Patrick's heart thumps up to his throat, nervous. He tries to dodge when she leans in, but there's nowhere to go. He squeezes his eyes closed and tries not to be a total failure.

Janet tastes like candy apple lipgloss, lips soft and smooth against his. She smells like the same kind of cucumber body wash Anna uses. Patrick feels nothing. He blinks his eyes open, tilting his head back. Janet follows him, ignoring all his signs. Patrick looks awkwardly around her, trying to find an exit.

His eyes stutter to a halt at the makeshift stage. Wentz has taken his shirt off and climbed onto the dining room table. He has one hand on the ceiling fan, back arched back as he yells into his microphone. The light catches on the sweat gathered along his back and makes dark shadows in the hollows of his hips. When he bends down, his jeans slip down a little, showing the top of his ass. Patrick squeezes his eyes shut, ignoring the curl of heat in his stomach.

"I can't do this," Patrick says against Janet's mouth. He pushes her away gently by the shoulders, staring at the floor. "It was nice to meet you. I'm gonna-" He slides out from between her and the wall, shouldering through the crowd. He's going to kill Kevin when he finds him.

There's too many people. Patrick feels antsy, like he's being watched. Like he's being judged. Like people will know that he's broken somehow. He should have wanted to mess around with Janet. He should have wanted to sleep with Anna. There has to be something wrong with him.

He finds Kevin in the kitchen, surrounded by seniors. The look Kevin gives him is mostly confusion, but Patrick knows him well enough to see the disappointment. When Patrick nods his head to the door, Kevin excuses himself from his friends and leads the way out.

Patrick spends the ride home picking at his jeans, waiting for Kevin to call him out. He's surprised to find that he's a little disappointed when it doesn't happen.

\---

For the next two weeks, Patrick wakes up from dreams that leave him sticky hot and panting, flashes of dark skin and flat stomachs stuck the the insides of his mind. He changes his sheets guiltily and tells himself that it's totally normal for a guy his age.

After one particularly miserable night, he pulls his laptop off the dresser and locks his door. He's never really- he doesn't watch porn. Not really. It takes him awhile to find what he's looking for, guilt and nerves piling up in his stomach like lead. 

The video he clicks on is thirty seconds long and has two boys that look barely older than him in it. Patrick takes a deep breath, double checks the volume control, and presses play. It's a terrifying thirty seconds.

Patrick watches one of the boys wrap his mouth around the other one's dick, eyes wide open and bright. He lowers his head slowly, the other boy's fingers tangling up in his blonde hair, urging him on. Patrick shifts awkwardly in his chair, not really sure where to look. When the video is over, he lets out the breath he'd been holding and presses play again.

The boy getting head has nice thighs, Patrick thinks. He looks up the solid line of them, watches the blonde's hand run up one to the other boy's ass. His dick twitches in his sweatpants. Patrick isn't really sure how he feels about this development.

He watches the video three more times, until the sound of their moans are imprinted on his brain, the sight of them burned into the back of his eyelids. Somewhere between the third and the fourth viewing, his hand has crept down to rest over his cock, pressing down gently.

When he jerks off, he tells himself it's an experiment. Just an experiment.

\---

Patrick doesn't talk to Anna again until summer break is almost over. She's got a job in Evanston and he's in and out of shitty bands more often than not. They don't avoid each other, but they don't really seek each other out either.

Patrick doesn't mention his newfound curiosity, and she doesn't mention the necklace with another boy's initials on it. Somewhere else, Patrick thinks, they might have worked out. Somewhere else, he might not have broken her heart. 

They make awkward small talk until Anna has to leave to catch her bus. When they hug, Patrick thinks about telling her. Instead, he just waves and plasters on a smile.

\---

Patrick jams his hands into his pockets. He's freezing, coat not quite thick enough to block out the bite of the wind. It's the first night of Thanksgiving break and he's out past his curfew, hands shaking. He's not sure if it's from the cold or nerves.

There's a wad of cash in his pocket and a fake ID that looks like it was hastily cobbled together in a high school kid's basement. This is probably the stupidest idea he's ever had. This is probably the last stupid idea he'll ever have, because if and when his mom finds out, he'll be grounded for life.

Jackhammer looks like a regular building, tucked up into the wall next to a restaurant and another bar. There's a little rainbow sticker on the door, right next to the handle and the giant bouncer guarding the door. Patrick leans against the wall and cups his frozen hands over his mouth to warm them up.

He can't do this. He's sixteen and looks younger. Even if he gets inside, what's he going to do? Chat up some guy? He can barely think about it without freezing up. No one's going to take him seriously. He's just- he's so stupid.

There's a group of guys stumbling across the street, ignoring the honks of cars going by them. One of them trips over the curb, drunk already. Patrick shrinks into the wall. He's going to walk to the El, go home, and forget about ever trying to go to a gay bar.

"Hey," one of the drunks calls. Patrick startles. The guy is looking at him expectantly. "John, let's go!" Patrick stares at him, suddenly unable to move. The guy makes a face at him, waving at the inside. "Chris has your ID, asshole." He turns to the bouncer and grins, his cheeks puffing out. "He's drunker than I am, dude."

Patrick swallows down his fear and shoves off the wall. This guy is giving him an in. It's got to be a sign of some sort. Patrick ducks under his arm, into the loud bar, and tries not to have a panic attack. He's breaking so many laws right now. 

He trails after the guy that had let him in, glancing nervously over his shoulder. He's never been the kind of kid to go looking for trouble. He has to admit it feels- kind of nice. Rebellious. It feels real.

"My name isn't John," Patrick shouts over the music. There's so many lights, so many colors. The sensation of it might be too much for him.

"No, really?" The guy asks. Patrick flinches. "I'm Pete," he says, holding his hand out. His arm is thick and solid and ringed in tattoos. There's something familiar about him that Patrick can't quite pin down. 

"Patrick." Patrick takes his hand, shaking awkwardly. He bites down on an indignant squawk when Pete tosses an arm over his shoulders. He smells like cologne. Like sweat and liquor. It's nice in a weird way.

Patrick tries not to trip over his feet as Pete drags him through a sea of talking, half dancing men. Most of them are in their thirties or older, better dressed than Patrick could ever even pretend to be. Pete looks closer to Patrick's age at least, and when Patrick dares to look up at him, he goes a little pink.

"Awesome. Now, I had an awesome buzz going, and since I got you in? You should buy us a shot. Sound like a good plan?" Pete parks them in front of the bar, shoving Patrick up between two stools.

"Sure," Patrick chokes out. There's someone's thigh pressed against his hip. Someone who's old enough to be his dad. "Are you sure they're not going to card me?"

"Yes," Pete says, giving him a smile that shows most of his teeth. He pounds the bar and turns the smile onto the busty bartender. Patrick watches her face as closely as he can. "Two double shots of Black Velvet."

Patrick peels a few bills off the squished roll in his pocket and lays them on the counter, shifting awkwardly. He's waiting for the bartender to call him out, but she just slaps the shots down and swipes the cash off the counter. The alcohol sloshes onto the bar, dark and thin.

Patrick carefully curls his fingers around the tall shot glass and takes a deep breath. He's never drank anything stronger than wine coolers before, never really gotten drunk. He looks at the bar around him, at Pete, and decides that there really is no time but the present.

“Drink up,” Pete says. “Count of three. One, two-” Pete knocks his back easily, his Adams apple bobbing as he swallows. 

Patrick tries to mimic him, eyes squeezed shut. It burns going down. Patrick chokes a little, whiskey spilling back over his chin as he tries to swallow it all down. He can hear Pete laughing next to him. The warmth in his throat spreads down to his belly, pooling behind his navel. It's- good, once the coughing stops.

"Good stuff, right?" Pete asks, thumping Patrick's back. "Let's do it again."

Patrick coughs again as Pete waves the bartender down. He plops his cash onto the bar, takes his shot, and is proud when it goes down easily. The third time is even easier.

Pete won't stop laughing. It's contagious. When Patrick stands, he feels like his head is swimming. He has to catch onto Pete's shoulder to keep himself upright. Pete's warm and solid under his hand. Patrick isn't sure if the heat in his face is from the booze or from being so close to such an attractive guy.

"One more," he says, shaking his head. Pete just laughs and laughs.

They talk-shout under the music for a long time, drinking an assortment of beers that Patrick can barely wrap his mouth around. Three guys buy them rounds, nodding their heads. Patrick's pretty sure the only reason they're even looking at him is because of Pete.

"Music," Patrick says sometime later, leaning heavily on the bar. He misses playing real music. "I want to do that for the rest of my life." Even as everything else changes around him, music has been there solidly.

"It's not all it's cracked up to be," Pete says. His hands are shaking, body swaying on the stool. His face looks kind of fuzzy.

"How would you know?" Patrick asks, narrowing his eyes. He kind of feels like he's going to fall onto the floor.

"I've played in Arma for, like- uh. For a while." Pete hiccups, then laughs. Patrick laughs too. Then he actually hears what Pete said and feels his eyes go wide.

"Oh. Oh. You're Pete _Wentz_?" Now that he's looking, Patrick can place his face to the name. He hadn't known that _Pete Wentz_ was gay. "Wow. That's awesome. I go to a lot of your shows." That is not strictly true, but it's also not a lie.

"Cool stuff, dude," Pete says. When he smiles, he shows all his teeth. He buys them vodka lemonades and crashes their glasses together like he's falling into it.

Patrick feels small and young and kind of stupid, hanging onto Pete's tour stories. He nods a lot even though it makes his head swim, too awestruck to ask questions. Not that he needs to; Pete runs off at the mouth easily, full of an easy energy that Patrick can barely keep up with. 

This is possibly one of the most awesome nights of Patrick's life. He takes another beer from the bartender without asking where it came from, swallows it down. It doesn't even taste like anything anymore. Every time he closes his eyes, colors burst behind his eyelids and his stomach rumbles uncomfortably. Patrick holds it in. He will not puke in front of Pete. He won't.

Somewhere between dizzy and sloppy, Patrick starts singing along to the music playing over the speakers. He slurs half the words, mouth lazy, but the three dudes in the corner that bought them drinks before clap and shout for more. Patrick laughs and sings Pink at the top of his lungs. Next to him, Pete's grinning big and stupid, like Patrick's doing something right.

"We should go," Pete says after Patrick's gone through half the jukebox. There's twelve singles in Patrick's pocket and a scribbled down phone number. He feels pretty successful.

"I don't want to," Patrick says. He leans against Pete's side, sucking up his warmth. Pete throws an arm around his shoulders, drags him up.

"Now, now. It's past your bedtime." Pete snorts, loud and unattractive. Patrick feels like he's been insulted, but he can't figure out quite how.

He wobbles out the door with Pete, giggly and spinny. Today was a great day. Today was a good use of breaking laws. He's a criminal and he loves it.

Pete stumbles over the curb, catching his weight on Patrick. There's two seconds where Patrick knows he's going to fall- knows he's going to scratch his face against the pavement and possibly lose a tooth. Then he finds his footing and laughs because there is absolutely nothing else he can do. He's still laughing when Pete kisses him.

Patrick leans into it, a little desperate. Pete's just- he likes Pete too much already and Pete _gets_ him and _Pete, Pete, Pete_.

Pete crowds him into an alley, all the laughter gone. Patrick's feet tangle up underneath him as he goes, but Pete's right there with him all the way. Pain hits him when his hip crashes into a dumpster, bouncing off into the wall.

The air around them is freezing, stinging Patrick's cheeks and turning his breath into steam. Pete's hot under his hands though, hot where he's pinning Patrick against the wall. There's so much Patrick wants to do, so much he wants Pete to do. He can't find a place for his hands, can't do much besides groan against Pete's mouth.

He feels Pete's hand slide into his back pocket and he jerks up against Pete's thigh. Fuck, he's turned on. Pete squeezes, pulls him closer. Patrick breaks away, the wet sound of their mouths separating shooting straight to his dick.

"Let me," he starts, shoving Pete back against the dumpster.

He drops down to his knees, too fast and too hard. Pebbles dig into his skin through his jeans, but he can't think about the pain when he's so close to Pete's dick. He can see it outlined in Pete's pants, hard and thick and needy.

Patrick's hands shake as he tries to unbutton them. He can feel how hot Pete is, and his nerves are finally catching up to him. This is Pete Wentz- someone who's a someone. He's just Patrick Stumph- a virgin with a week's worth of gay porn to go off of.

When he finally gets Pete's jeans undone he leans in and fits his mouth against Pete's dick, mouthing at him through his underwear. The cotton is rough against his tongue. Above him, Pete moans low in his throat. It's the hottest thing Patrick's ever heard. 

Patrick jerks Pete’s underwear down, nearly toppling backwards. He can do this. He’s totally prepared. He wraps a shaky hand around Pete’s dick, breathes deep, and ducks in. Pete’s cock stretches his mouth just enough to make him feel like he’s drooling. Patrick sinks his head down until his mouth hits his hand and goes back again.

He’s too dizzy. It’s weird moving, but in a good way. He thinks about the porn he’d watched, thinks about what would feel good, and tries to duplicate it. When Pete’s fingers tangle up in his hair he whines and pulls off, breathless. In front of him, Pete’s dick is shiny and red. Patrick leans in, presses his mouth against Pete’s thigh. 

Pete groans when Patrick licks at his balls. Patrick does it again, sucks at them. He feels the wet slap of Pete’s dick against his cheek and is mortified somewhere inside. 

The hand in his hair guides him back up to Pete's dick. He chokes when it slides too far into his mouth. He squeezes his eyes shut and tells himself he won't throw up. He won't.

It doesn't matter anyway. Before Patrick can ground himself Pete's pulling out and coming on his face, hot and sticky. Patrick takes three seconds to catch his breath before scrabbling at his jeans. Fuck. Fuck. What the fuck.

He falls forward against Pete when he gets a hand around himself. Pete's stomach is warm and flat against his mouth, and he can feel Pete's come smearing onto his skin. It's dirty as fuck. Patrick groans, fucking into his fist desperately. When he comes, he sees stars.

Pete hauls him to his feet, laughing when Patrick takes too long to find his footing. He scrubs at Patrick's mouth with the sleeve of his hoodie, hand pausing on Patrick's cheek. Patrick can't stop smiling.

Here, now, he feels invincible.

"'m a fucking groupie," he mumbles against Pete's wrist. His heart beats double, shy. The way Pete's looking at him makes his chest ache.

They stumble out of the alley together. Patrick can't let go of him, even as Pete waves wildly for a cab. If this is all he's getting, he's going to make it last.

"Is someone going to miss you tonight?" Pete asks when a taxi pulls to a stop next to them.

"No," Patrick answers. He can barely hear over his thundering heartbeat. Pete's asking him to go home with him. Pete wants to- to something with him. Patrick would risk _years_ of grounding for this.

He lets Pete shove him into the back of the cab, legs still wobbly. His pants are still undone, slipping off his hips every time he moves. When Pete bounces against him, Patrick grabs on and doesn't let go.

The ride is a blur. Literally. Patrick can't see much farther than Pete's mouth and the curve of Pete's throat, can't hear anything but his own breathing. He spares a brief thought for Anna, for how he never felt like this when he was with her. How it was never really right.

When they pull up at Pete's place, Pete shoves a handful of crumpled bills at the cabbie. He drags Patrick through the manicured lawn, laughing loud enough to wake the neighbors. There's a moment between the front door and Pete's room that Patrick freaks out.

He's doing this. He's really doing this.

His back hits the wall, head thumping against a poster. Pete's mouth on his like fire. Patrick's never going to get sick of kissing him. He drags his hands up Pete's side, groping for skin under his jacket and shirt.

"Fuck," Pete mumbles against his mouth, pulling back long enough to yank his shirt off. "Fuck." He fists a hand in Patrick's hoodie, knuckles pressing into Patrick's chest.

Patrick trip walks to the bed, laughing when Pete tosses him down onto it. He can barely see in the dark room, but it doesn't matter. He can feel Pete moving over him and around him and that's more than enough.

For a few moments, he thinks Pete's just going to leave it at making out over the covers, rubbing against one another like teenagers. There's something both disappointing and relieving about that thought.

"I'm going to fuck you through the ground," Pete says, low against Patrick's jaw. There's a soreness there that Patrick knows will be a hickey. He's probably over excited about the thought of it dark on his skin.

"Yeah," Patrick chokes out. "Yeah."

He goes when Pete flips him over, raises his hips up when Pete touches them. He's not as drunk as he was before but there's still a steady buzz under his skin that makes him loose and easy. Pete undoes his fly with one hand, pressed hot and heavy against his back.

Patrick's still in his clothes when Pete shoves two fingers into his mouth. Patrick sucks on then eagerly, eyes closing. It's a nice distraction. He might not actually be ready to be here, bare ass in the air for Pete to see. He shivers when Pete pulls his hand away. This is really going to happen. This is- not what he expected when he left the house. 

Pete presses a finger against his ass, slipping it in. Patrick jerks, head dropping to the mattress. It’s too fast. He whines, tries to squirm away, but Pete follows him, keeps fucking him with his finger. Patrick squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath. Thousands of people do- do this, and like it. He just has to relax.

The second finger kind of pinches. Patrick leans on his shoulders and reaches down to grope at himself. He’s only half hard, but he thinks nervously about Pete fucking him and feels himself relaxing a little. Something bubbles up in him, breaking out in a nervous laugh. He’s _losing his virginity to Pete Wentz._

“Fuck,” Pete says, pulling his hand away. Patrick expects to hear a condom wrapper, but the only warning he gets before Pete presses into him is the slick sound of Pete spitting into his palm.

It hurts.

Patrick releases the breath caught in his throat and pushes back against Pete. He just has to relax. It's- he'll be okay. He jerks himself off lazily, trying to match Pete's rhythm. There's nothing left of the dizzy drunkenness inside him anymore, just him and Pete and the sound of Pete's hips against his ass. It takes him a long while to realize he's humming along to their fucking.

The pain fades when Pete leans in against him, skin hot all the way through Patrick's clothes. One of his arms wraps around Patrick's chest holding him. When he feels Pete's mouth against the side of his jaw, he melts a little.

It doesn't last long, but when Patrick feels Pete groan into his hair- when he feels Pete _come inside him_ , Patrick jerks himself off faster and surprises himself with how strong his own orgasm is.

Pete kind of flops over, dragging Patrick down to the mattress with him. He's going soft inside Patrick, one arm tossed over Patrick's waist. It's- nice. Patrick snuggles back against him and closes his eyes.

He dreams about playing music next to Pete, dreams about going home with him show after show. It's a good night.

\---

Patrick wakes up slow and lazy, yawning into his pillow. He shifts, kicking his jeans all the way off when he realizes they're tangled around his ankles. His knees hurt and his ass hurts and his eyes feel sort of swollen when he opens them, but he feels way better than he thought he would.

Pete's still sleeping next to him, breathing softly. There's a dark, round mark at the base of his throat that Patrick can't stop staring at. He did that. _He_ did that. It makes him feel kind of giddy and lightheaded. 

Tentatively, he reaches out and touches it gently, fingertips barely ghosting across Pete's skin. Pete's warm against him, loose. Patrick watches his chest rise and fall, unable to look away. Pete Wentz he thinks. _Pete Wentz_.

Patrick curls up against him, fingers tracing up and across Pete’s chest. His stomach twists as he thinks about last night. When he moves his hips, he can almost feel Pete inside him. It makes him feel hot, dick swelling in his boxers. He wonders if Pete would be mad if he woke him up for another round. 

Well, he thinks, wincing when he turns onto his side, maybe not another round, but something.

He watches Pete’s face as he reaches down slowly, fingers brushing against the dark hair that leads into Pete’s boxers. Pete shifts, eyes fluttering and eyebrows drawing together. He’s soft when Patrick wraps his fingers around him, but his dick wakes up faster than he does, twitching into hardness. Patrick strokes him slowly, learning the feel of him.

It’s different than jerking himself off. The angle is weird and Pete’s boxers are kind of trapping his wrist, but it feels good. Like he’s got some sort of power. Pete’s so hot in his hand, heavy. Patrick listens to his soft sounds, trying to pick out what’s best. 

He wonders how many people Pete’s been with- how many guys. The insides of Patrick’s thighs are still sticky, his underwear half off his ass. There’s no way that he’s the first guy Pete ever fucked. He wonders when Pete found out he liked guys at all. As he watches Pete’s mouth fall open, something like relief settles into his stomach.

I’m gay, he thinks. It’s kind of scary and kind of life changing but right. He’s gay. 

Pete turns his head away when Patrick tries to kiss him. Patrick shrinks back, embarrassed, keeping his wrist going. He can feel Pete’s thighs tensing under his wrist, his hips lifting up. Pete comes into his hand, sticky wet and hot, and Patrick’s own dick twitches in response. Fuck. He didn’t expect this to be so hot. He presses a kiss the the hickey on Pete’s throat, smiling against it. There’s nowhere he has to be today. Hopefully he can spend it here. 

“I think I lost my pants,” he says, lips scraping against the stubble on Pete’s jaw. He pulls back a little, shrugging. He chews nervously on his lip and gives a weak smile. “Guess I’ll have to stay in bed.”

“Get out,” Pete says, rough. He pulls back even as Patrick reaches for him. 

“Pete?” He asks, hesitant. Pete sits up, one hand pressed to his forehead. He closes his eyes and keeps them shut. Patrick feels his heart sinking into his stomach.

“Get the fuck out,” Pete says, voice bouncing off the walls. 

This isn’t right. This- this isn’t- No. Patrick scrambles backwards, toppling off the bed. His knees hit the wood hard enough that he feels them crack. He can’t breathe. Pete kicks his pants onto the floor, head still cradled in his hand. Patrick feels himself go red when he bends to pick them up. It hurts, pulls at his legs and makes every pain from last night rise back up. He feels used.

He feels stupid. 

His jeans don’t go on easily, tangled up and damp at the bottoms from snow. His heart is thundering in his chest. How could he think that this was anything- anything special? How could he think that Pete fucking Wentz could give a fuck about some out of shape groupie? His shoes are across the room, knocked off with the laces still on. He fumbles with them, hands shaking too much to function properly.

“Can you at least give me a ride home?” He asks, voice wobbling. He won’t cry. There’s no fucking way that he’s going to cry like a fucking kid. He clenches his fists instead, trying to be more angry than upset. 

“Get the fuck out,” Pete shouts. He looks up, eyes bloodshot, mouth twisted up in an ugly sneer. “Get the fuck out and don’t come back.”

Patrick leaves. He does his fucking walk of shame through Pete’s empty house, slamming the door shut behind him. 

Patrick forces himself to walk to the end of the block, breathing slowly through his mouth. Every step aches and every ache makes him think about Pete fucking him. He'd been such an idiot. He swallows down the urge to break down in the middle of the road and fumbles for his phone.

"Can you get me?" Patrick asks when Kevin answers. He doesn't know what time it is, doesn't really know where he is.

"You okay?" Kevin asks. He sounds like he's just woken up. Patrick slows to a stop, leaning in against the nearest bike rack.

"I. Yeah." Patrick runs a shaky hand through his hair. His hat's gone, probably stuffed somewhere under Pete's bed. "Please. Can you just pick me up?"

"Yeah," Kevin says softly. There's the sounds of him moving things around, then the jangle of his keys. "Where are you?"

"I'm-" Patrick looks around, narrowing his eyes against the sun. He's got a headache pulsing in the back of his head, stomach churning. "Hang on."

There's a shopping center kind of nearby. He wobbles towards it, listening to his brother's even breathing. Kevin doesn't say anything as Patrick makes his way into the Panera Bread at the end of the road.

"Excuse me," Patrick says, clearing his throat nervously. He covers the mouthpiece of his phone, eyes trained on the cashier's sticker covered nametag. "Could you tell me where I, uh. Where this is?"

"Oh, honey," the cashier says. She hands him a paper coffee cup, patting his hand gently.

There's a worn wedding ring around her finger, her voice thick with a Spanish accent. She gestures for his phone and Patrick hands it over, head hung. Patrick fills his coffee cup up as she tells Kevin the address. He's too embarrassed to do anything else. The woman, Mary, hands Patrick his phone back a few moments later.

"He'll be here soon," she says. "Go on, sit down."

Patrick curls up in a booth in the back, nursing his coffee. He tries to keep his mind carefully blank, but all he can see is Pete laughing and Pete's stupid fucking orgasm face and _Pete, Pete, Pete._

When Kevin collects him, he's mostly done with his lukewarm coffee. It sits like lead in his stomach, but his headache has cleared a little. Kevin doesn't say anything, just gives him a small smile and helps him out to the car, one hand steady on Patrick's elbow.

Kevin drives through a McDonald's on the way home and hands Patrick a large order of fries. The smell of them makes Patrick nauseous, but he picks at them weakly. He has to look like hell. He doesn't want to know what he looks like. Used, he thinks again. He probably looks used.

The ride home is silent. Patrick only eats a few of the fries, but the rumbling in his gut lessens a little. His mother's car isn't in the driveway. There's that at least, he thinks.

"Be careful," Kevin says when he cuts the engine. It's the first thing he's said since Patrick got in the car. Patrick swallows and nods.

Too late, he thinks.

\---

[Blah, blah, blah]

The Christmas music in the mall is driving Patrick nuts. He rubs at his temple with one hand, taking a slow breath. He’s got five shopping days left and three family members to buy for. If he’s lucky, he’ll be able to finish today. If he has to listen to _White Christmas_ one more time though he might lose his shit.

He’s got sweaters for aunt Mary and Katherine in one bag, discount watches in another for his uncles. His legs are tired from wandering around, sneakers squeaking against the tile with every labored step. This Christmas stuff is tiring. It’s only natural that he pops into the record store. 

[Blah]

He’s got his hand on a classic Louis Armstrong, fingers moving over the cover gently. He can’t afford it, but if he could- oh, man. He’d treat it so good. One day, he’s going to be able to afford as many records as he wants. One day, he’ll make his own. One day. His phone buzzes in his pocket. It’s probably Kevin waiting for him outside. He reluctantly lets the record go, sighing. 

When he makes for the exit, he runs face first into another person. It feels like an appropriate end to a shitty shopping trip.

“Sorry,” he grunts, bending down to help pick up the mess of cds scattered on the floor.

“No problem.” The guy has a little lisp, his eyes half closed like he’s barely awake. He’s wearing a 7 Angels 7 Plauges shirt that looks worn through.


	15. This Morning's Temptest, Connor/Murphy, PG-13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look through the MacManus brothers and how they ended up in America. Never really caught the flow I wanted it to have and there's a way better fic with the same style anyway.

**1980 - 6**

Connor fidgeted with his suit, tugging at the too long cuffs. Beside him, Murphy did the same thing. They didn't like mass, didn't like Sundays at all, but Ma cuffed them about the ears every time they complained, so they learned fast not to. Their suits had come from one of their uncles, stuff that had belonged to his kids way back in the day. Ma said they'd grown into them, but Connor wasn't so sure. 

He looked at the men in the pew beside them and knew that he and Murphy would never be that big. Maybe he would, he thought, trying to imagine himself with muscles and big shoulders and a beard, but not Murphy. 

Murphy had always been sick, as far back as Connor could remember. Too skinny, too small, too weak. Not enough fight in him, Ma said every time Murphy got one of his colds. Not like their Da, who Connor couldn't even remember. But he'd heard her praying to Saint Nicholas anyway, asking for Murphy's health and wellbeing, asking for a miracle to make him stronger. 

Connor thought it was dumb. If Murphy wasn't strong, Connor would be strong enough for both of them. He didn't need a Saint to do it for him. 

"Is it almost over?" Murphy leaned in close to whisper in his ear, his high voice hard to hear under the booming of the priest. Connor shook his head. He was cold and tired and bored, but if he made any sort of movement, Ma would tan his hide at home. 

They sat through the rest of mass, eyes on the Priest, trying to take in the Word. Ma had been teaching them to read for over a year, giving them each Bible verse to learn, taking them through saint after saint. Murphy liked it more than Connor did, able to pick up faster. He liked school more than Connor, too. Connor missed home while they were away at classes.

After, Ma pulled them to the side and pulled a silver box from her purse. It caught the lights from the candles, pretty and perfect. She knelt next to them, motioning for them to come closer. 

"These were your Da's," she said, opening the box. Inside, two wooden rosaries lay curled together, the crosses nearly as big as Connor's hands. "He should have been here to give them to you. You're old enough now to learn the Mysteries." 

She pulled one from the box, shaking it out. The beads clicked together, the wooden sound of them echoing through the slowly emptying church. She pulled Murphy closer and looped the beads around his neck, smiling as it settled against his stomach. Connor stepped in and accepted his. It was heavy around his neck. Another thing to tie him to God. Something tangible. He wasn't sure if he liked it or not. 

That night, Ma walked them through each prayer, her hands warm over theirs as they counted the beads. The words felt clumsy in his mouth, too many to remember, but Murphy said them easily. If Connor could be strong for them both, Murphy could be smart for them both. After, they curled up together in their little cot, their rosaries butting against each other and becoming tangled.

"Ever wonder where Da went?" Murphy asked. They could hear their mother closing the house up, locking doors and shutting windows against the oncoming winter chill. The bed always got too hot with both of them under the covers, even with snow on the ground, but neither of them could sleep alone. 

"No," Connor said. "Ma said he fucked off for something better, and we best not expect anything from him."

"You said a bad word," Murphy said, grinning. Connor pinched his side, covering his mouth with a hand to stifle his giggles. Murphy licked his palm, nose scrunching up and closed his eyes. "Wish he were here sometimes."

"Don't wish for stuff you can't have," Connor said, repeating what his Ma had told him a dozen times. "Won't do no good." Murphy shrugged, his rosary bumping up against Connor's chest. He coughed, the last of another cold refusing to be forgotten, and Connor pulled him closer. "Go to sleep, Murph."

 

 

**1989 - 15**

"If you little shits tear up this house while I'm gone, I'll skin you both," Ma said, frowning at them from the door. Murphy held up his hands, the cigarette between his lips bobbing as he grinned. Connor stole it from him and sucked in a deep breath. It still made his head dizzy in the best way if he smoked one too fast. Murphy punched him in the shoulder. Ma rolled her eyes. "Love you. Behave. If you're not in mass on Sunday, I'll know."

"We know, Ma," Connor said, pushing Murphy's head away with a palm flat to his face. Murphy licked him, wet and sloppy, until Connor pulled away. When the door closed, cutting off Ma's muttering about her disastrous children, Murphy collapsed on top of him, squashing him into the understuffed cushions of the couch. 

"It's like she thinks we're still kids," Murphy said. He snatched the cigarette back and took a drag, blowing smoke into Connor's face. 

"If you didn't act like one, she might not." Connor 

 

**1992 - 18**

Connor liked America. It was big and flashy and full of people even louder than him and Murphy. 

 

 

Murphy's breath against his throat was warm and steady. Connor counted them, fingers curling around the rosary Murphy had been too tired to take off. One breath for luck, another for faith, another for relief. They both stunk like blood and dirt, iron clinging to them stubbornly. 

He pressed Murphy's hands to the mattress, fingers closing around the bruises on Murphy's wrists. Murphy sucked in a breath through his teeth but didn't stop him. Murphy never stopped him, not really, and Connor wondered if that was something else wrong with them. 

"You just gonna look, or you going to do something?" Murphy arched his chest up off the bed, pressing their skin together. He was warm, familiar, the film of sweat between them sticking them together. 

"Big mouth on you, Murph," Connor said, because he couldn't say anything else. Murphy grinned at him and slumped back down. Connor could still see blood on him, the ghost of it riding his cheek and jaw.


	16. House of Leaves, Patrick, PG-13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was actually going to be a comic at one point in time, but things fell through. The working title was Vampire Detectives, which tells you the direction it was going. Patrick had to save so many people before his own soul could be saved. This was the lead up to that. It's been a long time since I've had a look at it. I know there was a sub-plot with Joe, Patrick's tragic human ex-lover, and Pete, the man that turned him and left him to fend for himself. Also, any reason to write in Michael Day and Matt Rubano are good reasons.

It’s not that he’d planned on murder as a hobby.

Patrick pulls away from the young girl’s throat, head throbbing as her blood pumps through him. There's the aftertaste of her powder and perfume in his mouth, tacky against his tongue. Feeding has gotten harder and less filling over the years. 

"You're never going to get full unless you kill them," Matt says as Patrick lays the girl down into her bed.

She's pale against the sheets, dark hair curling against her cheeks. Patrick gently adjusts her nightgown over her thin thighs and tucks the quilt around her. She'll wake up in the morning feeling faint, but she'll live.

"Shouldn't you be lurking around a crypt somewhere?" Patrick asks. He slides onto the windowpane next to Matt, swinging his legs past the crank. Matt laughs as he drops down into the snow, yanking Patrick down with him.

"Someone hasn't had their happy juice today," he sing-songs. Patrick brushes snow from his coat and glowers. "Actually, I'm here on business. Michael has a job for us."

"I'm not interested," Patrick says. He's beginning to feel too hot, pins and needles striking up under his skin as his dead arteries fill up.

"Eighty-six," Matt says. He flicks his hair out of his eyes. They catch the light, flash red like a cat's.

"I don't believe in superstition." Patrick rounds a corner. He can hear a festival in the distance, can smell the people sweating and drinking and having sex.

"You are a superstition," Matt corrects. He stays on Patrick's trail, walking backwards beside him. There's a bit of blood on his collar, a flush to his thin cheeks. He kills for fun still. Patrick has long since grown out of this.

"If you're done bothering me, I have business to attend to. Good day." Patrick ducks into the festival hall. So close after a feed, he should look almost human. When he turns, Matt is nowhere to be seen.

Just as well. Patrick has no place for idle superstition. Not any longer.

"Patrick," Greta says brightly, embracing Patrick like an old friend. Her skirts brush his legs, stiff with wire, but the rest of her is clean and natural and pure. "I worried you weren't coming."

"Never." Patrick kisses her hand and bows lightly. He can feel her father watching from the balcony, can smell the oil in his goggles. "If you'll excuse me, I think the others are waiting."

"Of course," Greta says. She presses a quick kiss to Patrick's cheek. It's hot against his skin, almost burning. Patrick tries not to hiss at the feel. Next time, he'll have to feed earlier. "Save a dance for me?"

"Of course," Patrick echoes as he backs away.

Greta is the daughter of a congressman. She looks every inch a southern belle, but Patrick's seen her wandering the streets at night in night goggles and men's clothing, looking for something. She's never acted suspicious of him, but Patrick is careful around her. For as much of an airhead as the others treat her, Patrick knows she's watching everything.

Patrick takes up his viola and steps onto the stage in the front of the hall. The young men he play with are talented and bright. They remind him of when he was alive, fiddling around with music to his heart's content. They never ask more of him than to teach and to play, and for that Patrick respects them.

"Greta seems sweet on you," Jeremiah says, voice low and bright. His hair is flopped over his face, hiding his damaged, glazed over eye.

"We're here to play," Patrick says, tapping his fingers against the wood of Jeremiah's chello. "Focus." Jeremiah nods, but Patrick can still see his smile.

They play waltzes and high spirited dances. Patrick watches the dancers idly, playing blind. This is something he indulges in for no other reason than want. Selfish, maybe, but he has a lot of time to waste. His band is made of good musicians that follow his lead even when he runs off course. He thinks they like the challenge.

The girl he fed off of is in the back. Patrick’s fingers slide off his viola. He can hear Jeremiah scrabbling to cover his mistake, can hear Nicholas picking up speed on his harp. Patrick swallows the dryness in the back of his throat and falls back into place.

There should be no reason for the girl to be awake, let alone walking. Patrick stares helplessly at her. He can see where his fangs had pierced her skin clearly, the raised marks still bleeding faintly. She’s swaying in place, her small body nearly engulfed by her nightgown. The patrons next to her are staring also. Patrick can hear their whispers like shouts in the night.

The girl reaches up to touch her face, hand shaking. In that moment, Patrick sees a shadow around her wrist. He looks behind her, tries to see the thing that is so close to her, but all he sees is darkness. Then the girl collapses and the shadow is gone.

The band comes to a clattering halt. 

Patrick sets his viola on the stage gingerly, climbs down. The crowd parts for him easily, lets him slip through all the way to the back. The young girl looks like a broken doll, legs akimbo and eyes wide open. There’s a bruise around her throat, darker than anything Patrick’s ever left. 

The whispers grow.

Carefully, Patrick kneels next to her. Greta flutters behind him, a nervous host shooing curious gawkers away. Patrick doesn’t have to touch the girl to know she’s dead. He can smell the death on her, can taste it against the roof of his mouth. He hadn’t killed her. He knows he hadn’t. She had been breathing while he was preparing to leave.

“Will she be alright?” Greta asks, mouth near to Patrick’s ear. His blood has started going cold already. Her breath feels like steam. 

“I’m afraid she’s dead,” Patrick says softly.

\---

"Maybe you've still got it," Matt says, trailing behind Patrick like a shadow. Patrick snarls at him. "Admit it, there's something nice about the smell of death."

"I didn't kill her," Patrick snaps. He rips the door to his home open, slamming it shut before Matt can ask to be invited in.

"She was dead," Matt says from outside. It echoes in the walls, vibrating in the brick.

Patrick carefully removes his jacket and scarves, placing them delicately at the dining room table. He doesn't dote on his collection of things as he usually does, bypassing the springs and gold and mechanics in favor of sleep.

There is a dusty, unremarkable master bedroom up the stairs kept for show. Patrick changes the linens once a month, airs the must away, but otherwise it goes empty. He ignores Matt's catcalls. He ignores the way his fingers shake as he pulls the cellar key from his pocket.

The door is pine, as old as Patrick himself is, heavy. Patrick pulls it open and is comforted by the overwhelming darkness that greets him. He locks the door carefully behind him and descends the stairs by memory.

There is wine along both walls, aging gently in their bottles, but mostly there is his bed, wide and sprawling across the floor. Patrick disrobes methodically. He can still hear Matt's voice sliding into the woodwork but it is muffled here. Patrick feels no guilt for leaving him in the cold.

The bed was a gift from a former friend. Patrick touches the fine silk of the canopy with gentle fingers. It could use better care, a nicer place to view, but Patrick can't bear to be parted with it. He sinks into the sheets like a stone and wills his mind empty.

He deserves tonight's rest.

\---

He's dreaming. He can feel the swarm of sleep around him, but he can't open his eyes. Not until the sun's gone down.

He's in Ireland. Home sweet home. The fields and rolling greens are familiar even so many years past. Patrick strolls through the countryside easily. His mind is filled with music and song, echoes of memories laid over the landscape.

When he'd been alive, he'd been the only son of a farmer. His mother died young, and his father mourned her every day. Patrick can almost see himself in the field under the hot sun, a skinny adolescent with flaming red hair, picking through the crops. He can almost feel the sunburn on his back.

The eclipse makes him shudder.

The visions of his past life vibrate away, shaken around him. Patrick tenses, crouches down in the field. There's no sound at all; just a ringing silence that makes him antsy. Off in the distance, a shadow blows in the wind. There's a pain in his throat, familiar even after a century, and a flash of dead, dead eyes, and then everlasting darkness.

He is not alone.

\---

"They say it was an animal," Greta says the next night, fingers clutched delicately around her tea cup. Her eyes are bright, interested. Patrick does his best not to flinch.

"This is rather dreary topic for tea," he says. He's been careful to avoid her hands on him, afraid she'll feel his cold even through her gloves.

"You look pale," Greta says. "Does the topic of death disturb you?"

"I'm surprised it doesn't offend you, Miss Salpeter." Patrick drinks his lukewarm coffee with his eyes closed. He can feel it worming down his throat, settling heavy in his stomach.

"You should know me better than that, Patrick," Greta admonishes. She leans over the table, her pale chest so very white against the pastel yellow of her dress. "I think it's very interesting. I think it wasn't an animal at all."

"Oh?" Patrick sits back in his chair. He thinks that if his heart still pounded it would be nearly beating out of his chest. "What do you think it was then?"

"A monster," Greta replies gleefully. Patrick carefully sits his tea down and forces air into his dead lungs to sigh with.

"I think you read too much," he says. There's a fine line to tread, and Patrick fears he may be ready to topple over.

"You were there," Greta says. "I know you saw the shadow, too. It was holding her aloft like a puppet." Greta waves the butler over, motions for him to fill Patrick's cup. "Something unnatural killed her."

"You should let this rest for now," Patrick says, voice low. He's never tried to play with Greta's mind, but he will be forced to if she keeps trying.

"You know something." Greta folds her napkin and places it delicacy on the table. "I'm not a child, Mr. Stumph. I will find out."

"There is nothing to know," Patrick says. "If you'll excuse me, I have other matters to attend to tonight." He pushes away from the table, jerky like a clockwork doll.

"I will find out," Greta repeats softly. Patrick nods his head to her and bows out. He feels ill.  
Outside, Matt is walking the edge of the Salpeter's outer wall, singing loud enough for Patrick to hear him. 

"I'm thinking of joining a band," Matt says as Patrick passes him. He hops off the wall, landing silently next to him. "Any recommendations?"

"I hear Scotland's nice," Patrick says, teeth grit. "Perhaps you should relocate there."

"But them Michael would be much too far to work for," Matt says, leaning in to breathe against Patrick's face. He smells of blood.

"I'm still not interested." Patrick winds through the streets, heading toward the mills. He's got an appointment with a tailor.

"I bet you will be soon," Matt says. When Patrick turns to look at him, he's disappeared.

\---

There are three notes on the floor when Patrick brings himself upstairs the next night. One is from Jeremiah, excusing himself from the night's performance. Another is his tailor's bill. The third is from Congressman Salpeter.

Greta has gone missing.

Patrick lays the notes on the dining room table and wraps his cloak around himself. He's furious- with Greta, with himself. With Matt. He should have known that Matt would have sunk to such levels.

There is snow on the ground, fresh and white and pure. Patrick listens to the sound of the city for the sounds of Matt. The problem is that while Matt seems always to know where Patrick is, Patrick has made an attempt to keep other vampires away from him. He's ignored everything, and now it could be the end of one of his dearest friend's life.

He walks briskly towards the cemetery on the outer edge of town. Matt has always found irony in being with the dead.

There are police on patrol, shining lamps against anything that moves. Patrick skirts quietly past them, listening to their idle chatter for any sign of Greta. They suspect she's run away. There was no sign of struggle, no blood. That, at least, Patrick is thankful for.

There are dozens of family mausoleums to look in but, this close, Patrick can smell him. He follows it through the winding paths, scuffing his shoes against the pebbles to make himself known. He refuses to play dirty.

Matt's holed up in the Adams family crypt. There's a torch burning in the entryway, but inside is pitch. Patrick blinks, feels his second eyelids sliding down. When he opens his eyes again, he sees Matt reclining against a tomb.

"I don't have the girl," Matt says. He taps his fingers against the stone, nails clicking.

"You know who does." Patrick narrows his eyes. His vision is better than Matt's- everything about him is better than Matt. He's had twice the time to hone his skills. 

"I don't," Matt says. He sits up, adjusting his ascot. It's smudged with dirt but Matt doesn't seem to notice.

"I'll kill you if she's hurt," Patrick threatens. He hasn't been this attached to a mortal since Joseph. His hands curl into fists, nails biting into his skin. He doesn't make hollow promises.

"Go to Michael. He has information for you."

"The same information he had before?" Patrick slams his fist into the wall, brick crumbling under him. Matt doesn't flinch. "I will not be blackmailed into becoming a priest's pawn!"

"If you want the girl, you're going to have to." Matt breezes by him. "Even if you don't want her, you may be interested in what he has to say."

\---

Michael is a large man, tall and slender, but quiet. He wears his collar proudly, his rosary visible in his pocket. He smiles, toothy but friendly, when Patrick enters the church on Matt's heels.

"I'm glad to see you," he says, gesturing to the inside of the church.

The building is beautiful from its arched ceiling to its stained glass windows to its polished floor, kept up by a dozen nuns. None of them are present currently, leaving Michael alone with two monsters. Patrick bristles at his trust.

"I'd like whatever information you have on Miss Salpeter's location," Patrick says tersely. He's letting his manners slip, but he can't be bothered to reign them in.

"I’m afraid I don't have that answer for you," Michael says, eyebrows knit together.

“Then I’m done here,” Patrick says, pivoting toward the door. “Good day.”

“Wait.” Michael’s hand lands on his arm, hot and large, overly familiar. 

“I could break you,” Patrick says quietly. He doesn’t move, jaw clenched. Michael doesn’t let go.

“You won’t,” Michael says. He lets his hand fall to his side. The concern on his face is open and sincere. Patrick wants to hate him for it. “You’re different.”

“I am what I am.”

"There's a way to fix that," Michael says gently.

Patrick laughs, a crackling sound that shivers up his throat. He can smell Michael's fear, thick and heady. In the corner, Matt is keeping himself quiet, fingering a Bible idly. When Patrick takes a step toward him, Michael flinches.

"Do you really believe that?" Patrick asks. He bares his fangs, feeling vicious and hollow. "Do you really believe God will give absolution to a creature that is no longer human?"

"I believe God is often underestimated," Michael says softly.

Patrick swallows down the sickness in his throat. He gave up the idea of heaven a long time ago. It's cruel to dangle it in his face now, no matter how pure Michael's intentions may be. It takes a lot of restraint to keep still when Michael touches his shoulder gingerly. Patrick ate a priest once; he'd tasted like communion wine. The beast in Patrick wonders if Michael would be the same.

"I am only here for Greta," Patrick says slowly. "I want no part in this superstition."

"As you wish." Michael leads him to the office behind the altar, shoes clicking against the wooden floor. Matt stays behind, sticking his fingers in and out of the basin of holy water at the pulpit to watch the smoke. Patrick has no doubt that he'll be listening in.

The office is small and tidy. The desk takes most of the floor space, and Michael has to squeeze past it to sit behind it. He motions at the chair opposite him, smiling faintly. It feels old under Patrick's hands- worn.

"There's been talk of a creature stalking several noblemen and women for the past few months," Michael says, leaning in. There's wear spots on his jacket's sleeves. "It leaves no footprints, has not been given a description, and seems only to strike those who have come into contact with a certain vampire."

"Are you accusing me of something?" Patrick asks. Michael's smile grows.

"I am not," he says. "I admit, when I first began collecting information I was suspicious. But- you are not a killer."

"Have you researched me as well?"

"Extensively." Michael pulls a journal from a shelf, turns it toward Patrick. "I have the date of your birth, your death, and every deed you've committed since. You've killed eighty-six men since your second life began. The last was nearly seventy years ago. Something changed in you."

"I was bored," Patrick says tightly. "Please do not analyze my past as if it were a passage from the Book. I was once a worse creature than I am now, true, but I am not here to defend or betray that. Now, tell me what this has to do with Greta."

"I believe the shadow creature has her now," Michael says. He folds his hands, rough knuckles red and too worn for a man of the cloth. "It has killed blindly in the past, but I have no doubt that it wants to use Miss Salpeter as bait."

"For me?"

"For you," Michael agrees. "Your first task is to find what it wants."

Patrick stands, raising himself up to his full height. He bows his head at Michael, says, "if it's me it wants, it's me it will get."

Matt is waiting at the altar, dressed in an altar boy's robes. He smiles with all his teeth, opening his arms wide to show the dress in its entirety.

"It's fate that I no longer have to shave," Matt says. "Dressed like this, I'd have meals walk straight to me."

"You're a mess," Patrick says.

"I take pleasure in knowing I'm not the only one." Matt skims the robes off easily, tossing them over the back of a pew. "Now, what are we going to do about your shadow beast?"

"I am going to Miss Salpeter's room to look for clues," Patrick says. "You have no part in this."

Patrick is unsurprised to hear Matt following him the entire way.

\---

Greta's room is made up for a child. The fine linens and hand carved furniture speak of her heritage, but the porcelain dolls lined carefully along the walls give nothing of her age. Every item has been placed with purpose, the music box on the corner of the dresser arranged to match the angle of the walls. Patrick knows that Greta has journals hidden away under the dolls, chronicling her foray into the supernatural.

There is nothing to suggest that she didn't simply walk away. There is no smell of blood, no lingering odor of fear. The lamp on her nightstand still burns brightly, the oil nearly run dry. Patrick snuffs it out with his fingertips, letting his second eyelids slip down. Whatever happened here was not vicious.

Gingerly, Patrick removes the dolls from the perches, careful not to damage their fragile bodies. Most are modeled after Greta herself, all blonde ringlets and blue eyes. Gifts from family friends and wealthy suitors. Greta hates them. She thinks them trite, boring. Patrick wipes the dust from one delicate face with his thumb, revealing the painted porcelain beneath. No, something this simple wouldn’t suit her at all. Under the dolls, a leather bound journal wrapped in silk waits for him. Patrick takes it and piles the dolls back on, ignoring their stares as he settles onto the softness of Greta’s bed. 

In life, Patrick’s vision had been poor. Too much time in the sun, too much time spent squinting at the fine, shaky lines of merchant’s books. Death has given him vision beyond perfection, made everything stand out unnaturally. When he opens Greta’s journal to the last page, he can see the ink bleeding into the fibers.

Something is coming. I see things in the darkness sometimes, from the corner of my eye. I don’t know how to explain them, or who I could explain them to, but I know they are there. I’ve felt them at night, watching me sleep. If only I could see what they are. If only I could understand what they want. Maybe I could bring them peace.

Patrick sets the journal back in its proper place. The stupid girl, running after danger. She's too headstrong for her own good. This beast, it didn't take her. She went willingly.

"You idiot," Patrick says aloud like she can hear him. 

\---

"Where do shadow creatures dwell?" Patrick asks. Michael doesn't look surprised to see him at all.

"Away from the sun," Michael says, smiling gently. His eyes are tired. Soft. He's been at his desk since Patrick left him, pouring over his books. There are smudges of ink on his fingers and wrists, and Patrick can smell the books on his skin. "Which is rising soon, if I am not mistaken."

"I'm an impatient man," Patrick says. He can feel the sun already beginning to rise, can feel the heaviness of the dead sleep creeping into his muscles. "What can you tell me?"

"Sleep," Michael says. He motions to the room behind his office. "The believers will be here soon and while I am forgiving of your condition, I fear many others are not." He places a gentle, fatherly hand on Patrick's shoulder. The man is barely older than Patrick had been when he'd lost his life. "Sleep until night, and I will look for the answer."

Even if Patrick wanted to, the sleep is too heavy to fight. He curls up on the cot in Michael's office, coat drawn over his head like a child's blanket, and lets the world go black. 

\---

"They live underground," Michael says when Patrick wakes up. He's drooping over his desk, eyes dark and tired. The texts on his desk are not religious. They stink. Reek of dust and decay.

"What are they?" Patrick asks. For as long as he's been alive, he's tended to keep to himself. 

"I don't know," Michael says, spreading his hands in front of himself. "They seem to have lived since the beginning of time, always lurking in the shadows. Shadow People. Doomed souls, cursed to walk the earth forever."

Patrick sits up slowly. He feels like he's been run through. His stomach aches, starving for blood. He hasn't eaten in days, not since the congressman's daughter. There's a worry under his skin about marking a new target.

"What want do they have of me?" Patrick asks.

"To make you one of their own," Michael says darkly. He reaches forward, as if he can touch Patrick reassuringly. "They know that you've been considering your soul."

Patrick laughs.

"I have no soul," he says. 

"You could," Michael replies. The concern on his face is almost painful to look at. He believes. Truly, truly believes. "The good Lord will not turn away the truly repentant."

"I am sorry to say that your lord and I have not spoken for over a century." He shakes his head, as though he can make himself forget. Michael smiles at him.

"That is why I am here," he says. Patrick can hear him aging every second, can see the way time is already corroding his skin. His hands. The lines beginning to form on his face. "Find the girl, and then find me. We have much left to discuss."

\---

Matthew is gallivanting around Kingstead Cemetery when Patrick arrives. One day, the novelty will wear from him, but he still laughs gleefully when he notices Patrick's arrival.

"Just in time," he says, hopping from one stone to the next. "I do love having company for dinner."

"I'm not much in the mood for company," Patrick answers tightly. There is a crypt nearby that smells of fresh rank. Dust and decay kicked up by unhurried feet.

"Nor for dinner," Matthew says morosely. He follows along at Patrick's side, nose twitching as he finally smells the upturned dirt. "You never want to dine with me."

"Because you are uncouth." Patrick pauses and frowns. "And also because you eat like a starving hound."

Matthew tosses his head back and barks out a laugh that sends small creatures skittering across the snow. "Leave it to you to abandon me simply because of messy eating habits."

Patrick can smell a human. He shoves Matthew away, annoyed. He behaves as if he is a child, eager for attention and impatient to earn it. As a human, he had been a thespian. The signs linger in his hands and the way he moved his entire body when he spoke. Patrick loathes every bit of it.

"Why here?" Matthew asks as Patrick pries open the door to a sleepy, dying mausoleum. Dust flutters down around them, cobwebs breaking apart as they enter.

"This is where I buried ~him," Patrick says quietly. 

The only thing that has changed in all the years since is the decay. Patrick could never find it in himself to come back. To treat the place as anything other than a resting place for the empty package that once held something he loved very dearly. The only thing he ever had loved, human or demon.

Patrick needs no torch to see the path down the passageway. The scent of death hangs heavy everywhere, bloodless and cold. Through the thin skin of his second eyelids, Patrick can see everything. Beside him, Matt stumbles blindly along.

Patrick remembers the crypt being built. He remembers the smell of the marble being chipped away, handled by clever, wonderful artistsans at the peak of their craft. He remembers the feel of the silken sheets that they had once lain upon together wrapped around the cold, dead shell. He remembers that cold sinking in and never leaving.

"How did you know they would be here?" Matthew asks. There are shadows weaving through the darkness. He watches them, all of his usual jovial behavior washed away.

"If they wish to do me ill," Patrick says, slow and dark, "this would be the place to do it."

Greta is laying on the marble coffin, eyes closed and hair loose over her dirty face. There is a single lamp lit, the flame flickering against the walls. In the light, a lone shadow wavers at the edges of Patrick's vision, moving every time he tries to see it.

WE HAVE BEEN WAITING 

Matthew looks up, eyes darting around the room. He, too, can see them. 

WE HAVE BEEN PATIENT, BUT THE TIME HAS COME.

"What are you after?" Patrick asks. The shadows gather around them get denser.

YOUR SERVICE IS ALL WE ASK FOR.

"My service for what?" Patrick watches as Greta lifts from the coffin, limp like a puppet, her dress dragging the ground. The smooth sluggish sound of her heart doesn't change.

WE DO NOT REVEAL THE FUTURE. WE MERELY BRING ABOUT THE CHANGE. 

"What change?" Patrick asks. Greta's eyes flutter open. They are dark. Not entirely her own.

"We wish to offer you a trade," she says. Her voice is wrong, made of gravel instead of silk. She steps to them, jerky. A marionette instead of a human. "Your service for the boy's life." 

Had Patrick a heart it would have skipped a beat.

"What boy?" He asks. Greta smiles. It is sharp. She takes his hand into her own, her skin as cool as his.

"You loved him deeply," she says. "So rare, a vampire that can love. We could use that. We could hone that." Greta nips at his wrist, lips curling up cruelly. "We know what you want, you filthy creature. And we have that power. Your soul for his."

And slowly, the coffin slides open, a hand long dead curling around the edges. With horror, Patrick watches muscle and skin grow over it, dancing back into human shape.


End file.
